I called my mother from a rooftop in Astoria last night, a little after midnight. For her it was already mid-morning in Ahmedabad, tea finished, temple done, the day fully underway without me.
That's the thing nobody tells you about moving nine and a half hours away. You are always living in two times at once. When I'm winding down, she's just getting started.
The rooftop belonged to my friend Ritu, off Ditmars, the kind of Astoria building where the elevator is a suggestion. We had gone up for air after too much wine and I wandered to the edge, phone already dialing.
My mother picked up on the second ring. She always does. "Beta, why are you awake?" As if she wasn't the one who taught me to stay up worrying.
Calling my mother from an Astoria rooftop has become a small ritual I didn't plan. Something about being up high, above the N train rattling below, makes the distance feel more honest. I can see the Manhattan skyline from there, all lit up and indifferent.
She told me about my cousin's engagement, about the monsoon finally breaking, about an aunty I don't remember who apparently asked about me. I told her about work, edited slightly, the way we all edit for our mothers.
Then we went quiet. Just breathing on the line across an ocean.
"You sound tired," she said. I am. "You sound far," I said. She is.
There's a scene in every Bollywood film where the daughter leaves home and the mother stands in the doorway, dupatta pressed to her mouth. I used to think it was overacting. It is not.
Down below, someone was blasting music from a car on 31st. The city kept going. It always does.
Before we hung up she made me promise to eat properly and wear something warm. I promised both, meaning one.
Some love only travels well at midnight, one rooftop at a time.
Love,