Riya moved back to Mumbai on Tuesday. We met three years ago at a house party in Bushwick, both of us the only brown girls in the room, both of us clutching warm beers we didn't want, and we clocked each other instantly. Best friends by the end of the L train ride home.
And now she's gone.
We did the whole last-week thing. Ate our way through Jackson Heights, split a plate of chaat at the place on 74th that tastes like actual India and not the sad diaspora version. Rode the 7 train back to hers in Long Island City while she cried and I pretended I wasn't going to.
The hard part about a best friend moving back home is that it forces the question I keep dodging. When do I go back? Do I go back? Is Ahmedabad even home anymore, or is it a place I visit and get treated like a guest?
Riya is so sure. Her family, her old friends, the whole warm chaos of it pulling her back. I watched her be certain and felt very far from certain about anything.
We helped carry her boxes to the car at 5am. Astoria was blue and empty. She hugged me so hard my ribs still ache. Called me her New York sister. I called her nothing because I couldn't speak.
Here's the thing nobody tells you about immigrant friendships. They're load-bearing. Riya was the one person who knew both versions of me, the Gujarati girl and the girl I built here. Now half my witnesses are gone.
I cried on the walk back to the train. Full ugly cry, no shame, a man walking his dog gave me a nod of pure New York solidarity.
My best friend moved back to Mumbai and took a piece of my map with her. We already have a video call scheduled for Sunday, her morning, my night, the same tea in different time zones.
Dil toh hai Hindustani, wherever the body ends up.
Come back and visit, Riya. Or I'll come to you. Either way, we're not done.
Love,