I took the A train all the way up. Past 168th, past where the tourists thin out, up to where Manhattan forgets it's Manhattan and turns into cliffs and trees and the Hudson going quietly about its business.
Fort Tryon Park. My new Sunday secret.
I came alone on purpose. This is new for me. For a long time being alone felt like a failure I had to explain, like everyone was watching, taking attendance, marking me absent from some group I should've been in.
So I packed a bag. A samosa from the place near my apartment, a book I've been pretending to read for a month, and I found a bench overlooking the river.
Here's what nobody tells you about a Sunday alone in Fort Tryon Park. It's populated by the loveliest cast. Old men playing chess. A woman doing tai chi under a tree with total commitment. A couple having what looked like a serious talk. Everyone in their own movie, letting each other be.
I ate my samosa. I watched the Hudson. New Jersey looked almost pretty from up there, which is the biggest compliment a New Yorker can give.
Back home you're never alone. Ever. Someone's always in the room, someone's always asking where you're going, someone's aunty is dropping by unannounced with too many questions. I used to crave privacy like water in the Ahmedabad heat.
And now I have it. Oceans of it. A whole Sunday where no one knows exactly where I am. It scared me at first. This much solitude. Like a room with too much echo.
But on that bench in Fort Tryon Park, with the samosa grease on my fingers and the river below and no one to perform for, I felt something click.
I like my own company. It took me two years in this city to say that without flinching.
The A train home was empty enough to sit down, which felt like a reward. I read my book, actually read it, three whole chapters.
Growing up is realizing solitude isn't the punishment. Sometimes it's the whole point.
Go sit by a river. Bring a samosa. Trust me.
Love,