I went up to my friend Reema's rooftop in Astoria last night because I could not sit inside my apartment for one more minute.
Some evenings the homesickness comes and sits on your chest like a cat that will not move. Last night was one of those. So I climbed five flights, sat on a folding chair near the water tank, and did the thing I do when I feel this way. I called Mumma.
Calling Mumma from the Astoria rooftop has become my ritual. The time difference means she is having her morning tea while I am watching the Manhattan skyline turn pink over the Triborough. Two versions of the same day, held together by a phone.
She answered mid-sentence, already scolding my father about something, and I laughed before I even said hi.
She asked if I was eating. She always asks if I am eating. I told her I made dal that morning and she demanded photo evidence, unconvinced.
Here is the thing about calling Mumma from the Astoria rooftop. She cannot fix anything from Ahmedabad. She cannot bring me haldi milk when I am sad. But she stays on the line while the sun goes down, narrating her whole boring beautiful morning, and somehow that is the fix.
We watched the same sunset in different centuries of the day. I showed her the skyline. She showed me the marigolds on the balcony.
"You are so far," she said, not sad, just true.
"I know, Mumma. I know."
The planes came in low over Astoria, one after another, all of them going somewhere. I told her I would come home for Diwali and she pretended not to care, which is how I knew she cared most.
We hung up when the sky went fully dark.
Distance is just love waiting for a better signal.
Love,