It happened Tuesday. The first cold morning on the 1 train, and I was completely, spectacularly unprepared.
I left my apartment in a linen jacket because the weather app lied to me, like it always does, and by the time I got to the platform at 137th Street I could see my own breath. In September. New York does this. It skips the memo and just changes the season overnight while you're sleeping.
The train was packed with people who all had the same face. That first-cold-morning face. Half surprised, half betrayed. A man across from me had a scarf already. A scarf! I respected him deeply and also wanted his life together-ness.
I got off at Christopher Street and walked past the bakery that smells like cardamom sometimes, which always makes me think of my Nani's kitchen in Ahmedabad, the winter mornings when she'd make chai so strong it could hold a spoon upright.
Here's the thing nobody tells you about the first cold morning on the 1 train. It's not sad. It's a start. The city smells different in the cold, sharper, cleaner, like it wiped away August and its swampy subway platforms and decided to be serious again.
I bought a coffee I didn't need from the cart guy who knows my order now. He said, cold today, huh, and I said yeah, like we were both amazed at the audacity of it.
By the time I got to work my hands were freezing and I was thrilled about it. There is something about cold mornings that makes me feel like a person with plans. Autumn Pooja is more organized than summer Pooja. Autumn Pooja might even do her taxes early. We'll see.
Tonight I'm digging out my real coats. The heavy ones I've been ignoring in the back of my closet since March.
Bundle up. The city changed while you were looking away.
Love,