The 6 train at 7am is a specific kind of quiet. Not peaceful quiet. More like everyone silently agreeing not to make eye contact until at least Grand Central.
I got on at 68th Street half-asleep, iced coffee sweating in my hand, when a woman sat down across from me holding the biggest bunch of orange marigolds I've seen since I left India.
Genda phool. The exact flowers my Ba strings into garlands for the little mandir in her kitchen. The whole car shifted. That warm, slightly bitter, unmistakable smell filled the space between the aluminum poles and the man scrolling reels too loud.
For two stops I wasn't on the 6 train. I was seven years old in Ahmedabad, watching my grandmother's fingers move faster than my eyes could follow.
I wanted to say something. Where are you taking them? A wedding? A temple? Your own kitchen? But this is New York and we don't do that, so I just smiled at the flowers like a weirdo.
She got off at 33rd. The marigolds went with her, up the stairs, into a city that had no idea what it just held.
The thing nobody tells you about the 6 train at 7am is that home can board and exit before you finish your coffee.
What smells like your childhood when you least expect it?
Love,