I had a fitting call at 7:30 this week, which meant catching the J train at 6AM from Delancey-Essex like some kind of functional adult. I am not a functional adult. But the city, at that hour, is generous enough to pretend I am.
The J train at 6AM is a different animal. No crush of bodies, no one clipping their nails (yes, that happens), no tinny speaker music. Just the rattle over the Williamsburg Bridge and the sun doing that thing where it turns the East River the color of a mango lassi.
I got a whole seat. Two seats. I stretched out like a maharani.
There was an older man across from me with a battered thermos, and when he saw me squinting at nothing, he tilted it toward me and asked if I wanted chai. I said no, obviously, because I am a New Yorker now and we do not accept beverages from strangers. Then I said yes, because I am still Pooja from Ahmedabad and refusing chai is basically a sin my Nani would haunt me for.
It was too sweet. It was perfect.
We didn't talk much. He got off at Marcy. But the J train at 6AM gave me this small unremarkable kindness and I've been carrying it around all week like a warm coin in my pocket.
Here's what I've figured out. The city is loud because we are loud. The 2 train at rush hour is a scream. But the same tracks at dawn are almost tender. The noise was never New York's. It was ours, all along.
I'm not going to become a morning person. Let's be real. But I'll take the J train at 6AM again just to remember the city can whisper.
Some mornings the whole world hands you chai. Take the chai.
Love,