It happened on the L train, somewhere between Bedford and First Avenue, which is a deeply unserious place to fall apart.
My dad sent a voice note. Just a normal one. He was telling me the gulmohar tree outside our flat in Ahmedabad had flowered again, all orange and ridiculous, and that he'd watered my mom's tulsi plant because she forgot. Two minutes of nothing. Two minutes of everything.
And I started crying on the L train.
Not pretty crying. The kind where you stare very hard at the subway map and pretend you're fascinated by the distance to Canarsie.
Homesickness in New York is sneaky. It doesn't show up during the big lonely moments when you'd expect it. It ambushes you. It waits until you're sandwiched between a guy with a yoga mat and someone eating a halal cart platter at 6PM, and then it goes: hey, remember the gulmohar?
Nobody on the L train noticed, which is the most New York thing about it. This city lets you grieve in public and minds its own business. I used to think that was cold. Now I think it's a kind of mercy.
The thing about homesickness is that it's not really about wanting to go back. I love my life here. I love my tiny apartment and my fashion job and my overpriced coffee. It's more that I'm carrying two homes inside one chest, and sometimes they bump into each other.
I texted my dad back when I got above ground in Manhattan: tell the gulmohar I said hi. He sent three laughing emojis and one heart. That man does not understand emojis and I love him for it.
I'm learning that homesickness isn't a problem to fix. It's just love with nowhere to go for a minute.
Some trees bloom whether you're there to see them or not. Maybe that's the comfort.
If you cried on the train this week too — same. We're okay.
Love,