I got invited to dinner at my coworker Meera's place in Astoria this week, and I did not expect to come home cracked open.
Her mother is visiting from Vadodara. She took one look at me, decided I was too thin, and put dhokla on my plate before I'd even sat down. Steamed, yellow, perfect, with the little mustard seeds popping on top.
Being homesick for Ahmedabad is a sneaky thing. It doesn't come when you expect it. It doesn't come on Diwali or during the loud phone calls with Mummy. It comes on a random Tuesday in Astoria when an aunty you've known for forty minutes tells you to eat more.
I grew up on my nani's dhokla. Sunday mornings, the whole house smelling of it. I left all of that on purpose. I chose the J train and the fashion internships and the tiny Harlem apartment with the radiator that clangs like a dhol.
But choosing to leave and not missing it are two completely different things. Nobody tells you that.
Meera's mom asked me if I was happy here. Not in a nosy way. In the way that mothers ask, where the real question underneath is are you being taken care of. I said yes. I meant it. And I still had to blink very fast and stare at the fridge magnets.
On the N train home, watching the city glitter through the elevated tracks, I let myself feel it fully. The homesickness for Ahmedabad. The strange grief of a life you actively wanted.
Here's what I've learned. Homesickness isn't a sign you made the wrong choice. It's just proof that you were loved somewhere before this. That you had a nani, a Sunday, a smell.
I carry Ahmedabad in me on the N train through Astoria. I don't have to pick a home. I get to be made of both.
Call your grandmother if you still can.
Love,