I took the 7 train to Jackson Heights on Sunday because I wanted pani puri and I wanted it badly enough to travel forty-five minutes for it.
Jackson Heights is the closest thing to home I have out here. Aunties in salwar kameez arguing over bhindi prices on 74th Street. The sound of Hindi and Punjabi and Bangla braided together. Sabzi stalls, gold shops glowing like little suns, the smell of frying and cardamom hanging in the August heat.
I ordered a plate of chaat and stood at a plastic counter and ate it too fast. And then, out of absolutely nowhere, I started crying into my sev puri.
Here's the thing about being homesick in Jackson Heights. It's cruel and it's kind at the same time. The neighborhood gives you a version of home so vivid that your body relaxes into it — and then reminds you it's a copy. Beautiful. But a copy.
My mom used to make pani puri on Sundays. She'd yell at me for eating them before the whole plate was ready. I always ate them before the plate was ready. I would give a lot to be yelled at like that right now.
Being homesick in Jackson Heights isn't about the food being wrong. The food is right. It's about the eleven thousand miles between the plate and the person who taught me to love it.
I called Ma from the platform on the way back. It was late night in Ahmedabad. She picked up on the second ring, half-asleep, and asked if I'd eaten. Always the first question. Haan, Ma, I ate. She said good, beta, and I could hear her smiling.
The 7 train pulled in above the rooftops and I watched Queens shrink behind me. Homesick, but a little less. Full, but not really.
Some hungers a plate can't fix. You just call your mother and let the ache be love in disguise.
Love,