I was walking home through Harlem on Tuesday evening when the homesickness hit me like a wave I didn't see coming.
It wasn't anything dramatic. Just the smell of something frying from an open window, a little like the pakoras my mom makes when it rains. And suddenly I was not fine.
So I sat down on a stoop on 123rd Street, the kind with the worn stone steps that a hundred people have sat on before me, and I called her.
It was already Wednesday morning in Ahmedabad. She picked up on the second ring, the way she always does, like she was just waiting by the phone. "Beta, you've eaten?" First question. Always.
I said yes even though I hadn't. Some lies are love.
Homesickness is a strange thing when you're 24 and supposedly living your dream in New York. You chose this. You fought for this. And still, some random stoop in Harlem can undo you completely.
She told me about the neighbor's wedding, about Papa's new obsession with morning walks, about how the cousin I can't stand got engaged. I just listened. Her voice filling up the quiet dusk on 123rd Street while people walked by with their groceries and their dogs and their whole New York lives.
"When are you coming home?" she asked. Not as a guilt trip. Just a mother missing her daughter.
"Diwali," I said. "I promise." And I meant it.
Homesickness doesn't go away because you have a plan. But it gets quieter. By the time we hung up, the streetlights had come on and I felt stitched back together, at least enough to walk the rest of the way home.
I love this city. I really do. But some nights I love it more because my mother is three continents away still asking if I've eaten.
Call your mom. That's the whole post.
Love,