It's Navratri and I am not in Ahmedabad.
Let me tell you what that means, because if you're not Gujarati you might not understand what I gave up to be here. My city becomes a living thing during these nine nights. The whole of Ahmedabad pours into open grounds, thousands of people spinning in circles until 2am, dandiya sticks clicking, the dhol going straight into your chest.
There is no Navratri anywhere on earth like the one at home. I have looked. Believe me, I have looked.
So I did what any homesick 24-year-old does. I sat on my kitchen floor in Astoria at 3am, phone propped against the sugar jar, watching my cousins do garba on video call while I ate reheated dal like a sad little raccoon.
My Nani held the phone up so I could see the crowd. "Beta, you should be here," she said, not to guilt me, just true. My heart did something painful and specific.
There's a Gujarati community garba happening in Jersey this weekend, and a bigger one out in Edison. I could go. I probably will. But I already know it won't be the same, and I've made my peace with that ache being part of the deal.
That's the thing about homesickness during Navratri. It's not sad exactly. It's love with nowhere to land.
I stood up eventually and did a few steps of garba alone in my kitchen, in my pajamas, under the ugly ceiling light. Three claps, a turn, that muscle memory from every year of my childhood. My downstairs neighbor probably thought I was rearranging furniture.
I danced anyway. For Nani. For the version of me who never left. For all of us far from home this week doing small private rituals to stay connected to the people we love.
Homesickness during Navratri taught me this: you carry the festival in your body, not your zip code.
Jai Mataji, from a kitchen in Queens.
Love,