There is a specific kind of homesick that only lands on Sunday evenings. It arrives around 6PM and it does not knock.
This week it came early and it came heavy, so I took the 7 train all the way out to Jackson Heights, which is the closest thing to Ahmedabad that Queens will give me.
The moment you come up the stairs at 74th Street and Roosevelt, the air changes. Jalebi frying somewhere. A speaker playing a song my mother would know every word to. Aunties in salwar kameez shopping with the seriousness of generals.
Homesickness for Ahmedabad is a strange animal. I don't even want to move back. I have built a whole life here, a job I fought for, a tiny apartment with a fire escape I call a balcony. But sometimes my body just wants the smell of my grandmother's kitchen, and Jackson Heights is where I go to trick it.
I bought samosa chaat from a place on 73rd and ate it standing up on the sidewalk, no shame. I let the tamarind and the crunch do something the therapist can't quite reach.
Then I went into a sari shop just to touch fabric. I told the woman I was only looking. She said, beta, look as long as you want, in Gujarati, and I nearly lost it right there between the silk and the polyester.
That is the thing about homesickness. It is not really about a place. It is about being known without explaining yourself. In Jackson Heights, for a few hours, nobody asks me where I am really from.
I called my mom from the platform waiting for the train back. She asked what I ate and I lied and said something healthy. She knew. Mothers always know.
I rode the 7 back into Manhattan as the sun went down over the whole glittering mess of the skyline, full of chaat and feeling, missing home and being home at the same time.
Some distances you learn to carry. This one I'll carry gladly.
Love,