Riya moved back to Mumbai on Thursday and I've been walking around with a Riya-shaped hole in my week ever since.
We met three years ago at a rooftop thing in Bushwick where neither of us knew anyone. She spotted my Fabindia kurta and said "desi?" and that was it. That was the whole beginning.
She was my person here. The one who understood without translation. When I said "I miss ghar" she never asked which ghar I meant. When I ranted about my landlord she'd send a Bollywood dialogue as a reply and somehow it was exactly right.
I took the AirTrain out to JFK Terminal 4 to see her off. We stood there by the departures screen and I was determined not to cry, which lasted about eleven seconds.
Saying goodbye to a friend who moved back home is a strange grief because it isn't a breakup. Nothing's broken. She's just going to be thirteen time zones away and awake when I'm asleep.
She hugged me and said, in Gujarati, "Tu pan aavje" — you come too — and I nodded like I could just hop on a plane, like distance is a thing you can just decide against.
Here's what I'm learning. New York gives you people and then New York takes them away. It's a revolving door of a city. Everyone's here temporarily, chasing something, and eventually the something is somewhere else.
I took the A back into the city alone and the train felt enormous. I kept turning to say something to a seat that was empty.
But we already have our routine. She's sent me nine voice notes about the Bandra air and the vada pav she ate straight off the plane, practically. I've sent her a photo of the leaves changing in Prospect Park because she'll miss fall.
We'll be okay. Friendship that survives a rooftop in Bushwick can survive an ocean.
Come visit me, Riya. Or I'll come to you. The door swings both ways.
Love,