My mother packed me a tiny brass elephant the night before I flew to New York. It sits on my desk now, between a candle that smells like a bookstore and a cup of pens I never use.
I carry her yellow dupatta, folded in my closet. A packet of Parle-G for emergencies. The gold jhumkas my nani gave me the morning I left. A bottle of coconut oil that has leaked, spectacularly, in two different bags.
Homesickness here is not loud. It's a taxi that takes the West Side Highway at night and a song comes on and suddenly you're fifteen again, on a scooter behind your cousin, weaving through Navrangpura traffic.
I don't try to fight those moments anymore. I let them in. I text my mom a voice note. I make khichdi in my tiny kitchen with the wrong lentils. I light the candle that doesn't smell like home but smells like mine, which is its own kind of home now.
You don't have to choose between the two cities. You get to keep them both.
Love,