It was 98 degrees on Tuesday and the G train did what the G train does, which is arrive when it feels emotionally ready.
I was standing on the platform at Nassau Ave in Greenpoint holding a plastic bag with one Alphonso mango in it. Just one. I'd bought a whole box in Jackson Heights that morning at Patel Brothers, the way my mother taught me to press gently near the stem, and I'd eaten my way down to the last one over the week.
This last mango I was rationing like it was gold. In Ahmedabad, mango season is a whole personality. You don't just eat them, you organize your summer around them.
The heat on the platform was doing that shimmery thing where the tiles look wet. A man near me was fanning himself with a folded AmNY. Somebody's Bluetooth speaker was playing Arijit Singh, softly, and I almost cried, which is embarrassing to admit but this is called Unfiltered Pooja for a reason.
The G train finally came. I transferred at Court Sq to the 7, then again into the heat above ground, and by the time I got home to my apartment the mango had gone soft and warm in the bag. Bruised on one side.
Here's the thing about carrying a mango from Jackson Heights across three boroughs in a heatwave: you either love the mango or you don't. And I do.
So I ate it standing over my kitchen sink at 7pm, juice down my wrists, exactly like I did when I was nine. The heatwave was still pressing against the window. My AC unit was wheezing like a tired uncle.
But for four minutes I was home. Not New York home. The other one.
Some flavors don't need translating.
Love,