I called my mother from a fire escape in Astoria at 11pm my time, which is 8:30 the next morning hers. She answered before the second ring. She always does. Like she's been sitting by the phone since I moved here, which she probably has.
My friend's apartment near Ditmars has this fire escape that looks out over rooftops and the elevated N train, and I climbed out there because inside was too loud and my heart was doing that thing again.
"Beta, you sound tired," she said. Not a question. She can hear it in one word.
I wanted to tell her everything. That New York is beautiful and exhausting. That I love my job in fashion but some days I feel like a fraud in every room. That I miss the smell of her kitchen at 6am, the pressure cooker whistling like a small angry train.
Instead I said, "I'm fine, Mummy. Just work."
Why do we do that? Travel across an entire ocean to build a life, then flatten all of it into "I'm fine" so our mothers won't worry. She knows I'm lying. I know she knows. We both keep the peace anyway.
The N train rattled past below me and for a second I couldn't hear her. "Hello? Pooja?" And I said yes, still here, still here.
Still here. Isn't that the whole thing about being far from home. You spend so much energy proving you're okay that you forget to just be a daughter for five minutes.
She told me about the neighbor's wedding, about the monsoon finally breaking in Ahmedabad, about how Papa refuses to see the doctor about his knee. Small things. The texture of a life I'm not in anymore.
When we hung up I stayed on that Astoria fire escape a long time. The homesickness I'd been outrunning all summer finally caught up and sat down next to me, and I let it.
I called my mother from a fire escape in Astoria and didn't cry until after. That felt like growth. Or maybe just distance.
Call your mom. She's already waiting.
Love,