I called my mom from a stoop in Astoria on Tuesday and I cried, and I want to be honest about it.
I was at my friend Reema's place off Ditmars, the N train rattling somewhere above us, and we'd just had this perfect dinner — too much food, the way it should be. And then she pulled out alphonso mangoes from the Indian grocery on Steinway Street and the smell hit me like a truck.
Mango season. June. Back home this is the whole reason for the month to exist.
My nani used to cut them over the sink so the juice wouldn't make a mess, and we'd eat standing up, sticky to the elbows, fighting over the seed. The guthli. The best part, the part you suck on shamelessly.
So I went and sat on the stoop while Reema cleared up, and I called my mom. It was already morning in Ahmedabad. She was making chai, I could hear the pressure cooker, and she asked if I was eating properly and I said yes and then I just — didn't say anything for a second.
The homesickness in NYC doesn't show up when you expect it. Not on Diwali. Not on my birthday. It shows up on a random stoop in Astoria because a mango smelled like my grandmother's kitchen.
My mom didn't make it a big thing. She just kept talking — about the neighbor's daughter's wedding, about the heat, about nothing. And that's the thing about moms. They know when you need them to just keep the line warm.
I'm twenty-four. I chose this city. I love this city. Both things can be true while you're crying on a stoop in Astoria with mango on your fingers.
I told her I'd come home for Diwali. I meant it this time.
Homesickness isn't weakness. It's just love with nowhere to put itself for a minute.
Call the person who taught you how to eat a mango. They're waiting.
Love,