My mother sends voice notes the way some people breathe. Constantly, without thinking, sometimes just to say the vegetable guy came early today.
This week she sent one that undid me. Nine seconds. Just her saying, in Gujarati, beta have you eaten, and then some noise in the background, my father asking her something, the pressure cooker whistling. Nine seconds of my whole childhood.
I was on the L, somewhere under the East River between Bedford and First Avenue, in that dead-zone tunnel where the world goes quiet and there's no signal and you're just alone with yourself. I played it four times. On the fourth time I started crying, quietly, doing the thing where you tilt your head up so the tears reabsorb, which does not work, ever.
The homesickness in this city is a strange animal. It doesn't come when you'd expect. Not during the holidays, not during Diwali when I light my one sad little diya on the windowsill of my Bushwick apartment. It comes on a Wednesday. On the L. In a voice note about whether I've eaten.
Because the thing about homesickness is it's really about being known. My mother's voice note isn't about food. It's her checking that somewhere across an ocean, in a city that doesn't know my grandmother's name, someone is looking after me the way she would.
And the honest answer is I hadn't eaten. I'd had cold brew and a granola bar and called it lunch.
So I got off at First Avenue and I went home and I made khichdi. Badly. It was too watery and I forgot the ghee until the end, but I ate it standing over the stove, and I sent her a voice note back. Nine seconds. Ha mummy, khai lidhu. Yes, I've eaten.
Homesickness isn't a wound. It's proof you have two homes.
What's the voice note you keep replaying?
Love,