Everyone in the building had somewhere to be on the Fourth of July. Party in Long Island City, barbecue in Jersey, someone's cousin's thing in Astoria Park.
I had a container of cold biryani from Kabab King on Steinway and zero plans. And honestly? Best decision I made all week.
I took the N up two stops, came home, and climbed the fire escape to our rooftop around eight. My landlord pretends the roof is off-limits but every Astoria roof is technically off-limits and technically everyone's living room in July.
The thing about watching fireworks from an Astoria rooftop is you get the whole skyline for free. The Empire State went red, white, and blue like it always does, a little cheesy, a little perfect.
When the East River show finally started, the sky over Manhattan split open. Gold, then that pink they never quite name. Somewhere below me a Bengali auntie was yelling at her kids in two languages and it felt like home and not-home at the same time.
I thought about Ahmedabad. We don't do fireworks in July, we do them in Diwali, and there's something disorienting about the wrong season making the right feeling.
Halfway through I texted my mom a blurry photo. She replied "beautiful beta, wear a jacket." It was 82 degrees. I love her.
The biryani was better cold, the way leftovers always somehow are. I ate straight from the container with a plastic spoon, sitting on tar paper that was still warm from the day.
Watching fireworks from an Astoria rooftop alone taught me I'm not lonely, I'm just selective. There's a difference and it took me twenty-four years and one immigration to figure it out.
When it ended, the whole neighborhood exhaled at once. Car horns, someone's Bluetooth speaker playing Arijit Singh, the N train rattling past.
I stayed up there until the smoke cleared. Then I climbed back down, rinsed my spoon, and went to bed happy.
Some celebrations are just you and a spoon.
Love,