The 6 train at rush hour is not a place for the soft-hearted. I learned this my first month in New York, when a man in a very serious coat elbowed me straight into a pole and did not even flinch.
But this week something shifted.
Maybe it's October. The cars still smell like coffee and damp wool, but there's a crispness that sneaks in every time the doors open at 59th Street. It makes the whole thing feel less like a battle and more like a ritual.
I transferred from the N at Lexington, squeezed myself into that familiar crush of bodies, and for once nobody shoved me. A girl near the door was reading a battered paperback. An older man hummed something that sounded suspiciously like an old Kishore Kumar song, and I almost laughed out loud.
The 6 train at rush hour will never be peaceful. I'm not going to lie to you and pretend I had a spiritual awakening between Grand Central and 33rd. I did not. I was still holding my breath and clutching my tote like it owed me money.
But there's something about fall in this city that softens the edges. The light comes in at an angle. People's noses go pink. Everyone's wearing the jacket they forgot they loved.
I used to think I'd grow to hate my commute. Back in Ahmedabad, I never had to stand pressed against a stranger's backpack to get anywhere. Now the 6 train at rush hour is where I do my best thinking, which says a lot about either New York or my brain.
I got off at 51st, walked up into that golden Midtown morning, and bought a chai from the cart guy who now knows my order. Small victories.
Some days the city crushes you. Some days it just carries you along.
Today it carried me.
Love,