There's a rooftop in Astoria I get to sometimes, when my friend Ria hosts and forgets to lock the roof door. You can see all of Manhattan from up there, lit up and indifferent, like a boy who doesn't know you're watching him.
Last night I called my mother from that rooftop. It was 10pm for me, 7:30am for her. She was already making chai. I could hear the pressure cooker doing its little scream in the background and I nearly cried into my phone in front of everyone.
Homesickness is such a strange animal. It doesn't come when things are bad. It comes when things are good. It came last night when the skyline was gorgeous and my friends were laughing behind me and I had exactly the life I once begged the universe for.
My mother asked if I was eating. She always asks if I'm eating. I said yes, Amma, I ate, and she said what did you eat and I said a salad and she went silent in that Gujarati-mother way that says a salad is not food.
We talked about nothing. Her knee. My cousin's engagement. The neighbor's new car. It's the nothing that I miss most, honestly — not the big moments, the boring ones.
Calling my mother from an Astoria rooftop has become a small ritual. Something about the height helps. Like I'm a little closer to being over there instead of over here.
Ria came and sat next to me after and didn't say anything, just handed me a cup of chai she'd made in her tiny kitchen, and it wasn't as good as Amma's but it was made by someone who saw my face and understood.
That's the thing about building a life far from home. You don't replace the people you love. You just slowly gather new people who learn to hand you chai at the right moment.
I hung up. The skyline stayed lit. I stayed a little cracked open, in the good way.
Some homesickness you don't cure. You just carry it up to the roof and let it breathe.
Love,