Every few weeks I take the 7 train out to Jackson Heights and pretend I'm not doing it for emotional reasons.
I tell myself it's practical. The dal is cheaper. The methi is fresher. You cannot find decent curry leaves at the Trader Joe's near my place in Harlem, and I refuse to accept the sad shrink-wrapped ones from anywhere else.
But the truth is Patel Brothers in Jackson Heights is the closest I get to walking into my mother's kitchen.
I got off at 74th Street-Roosevelt Avenue and the whole neighborhood opened up like a door I didn't know I'd been standing outside of. Aunties in salwar kameez bargaining in three languages. The gold shops glittering. A boy eating pani puri and crying from the spice and loving it anyway.
Inside Patel Brothers the air is different. Heavier. Full of hing and cardamom and something I can only describe as belonging.
I bought things I didn't need. A packet of Parle-G because the blue box made me ache. Ghee in a tin. Haldi, jeera, the specific brand of poha my Ba uses even though I know she'd say the one from the other store is better.
Shopping at Patel Brothers is never just groceries. It's a time machine with a loyalty card.
I ate at a tiny spot on 73rd after, standing room only, chaat so good I almost called home to describe it before remembering it was 2am in Gujarat.
The 7 train back was golden with late sun through the elevated tracks. My bags smelled like everything I miss.
I'll be back in three weeks, telling myself it's about the curry leaves.
What's the one thing you buy that's really just homesickness in disguise?
Love,