The first cold morning on the J train arrived without warning on Tuesday, which is very rude of October, if you ask me.
I walked to the Marcy Avenue station in a jacket meant for September and immediately regretted every choice. The wind came off the Williamsburg Bridge like it had a personal vendetta.
There's a specific feeling to the first cold morning on the J train. The platform smells different. Sharper. People stop lingering and start huddling. Everyone suddenly becomes an expert at standing exactly where the doors will open.
I got my chai from the little cart near the stairs — the uncle who runs it already knows I take it extra sweet, which honestly feels like a bigger NYC milestone than my lease.
The train came in half-empty and golden. That low October sun was slicing through the windows above the bridge, and for a second Manhattan looked like a film set. Delmar-era Dilwale, minus the accordion.
I pressed my cold fingers around the cup and thought about how in Ahmedabad, cold meant maybe a shawl in December. Here, cold is a full personality shift. A wardrobe, a mood, a reason.
Across from me a man was eating a bacon egg and cheese with the focus of a surgeon. A kid in a puffer jacket was asleep on his mom's shoulder. The bridge rattled under us the way it always does.
I love this city most on the first cold morning, when everyone is slightly unprepared together. There's a tenderness in the shared shivering.
By the time we hit Essex Street I'd finished my chai and warmed up enough to feel human again. I even unzipped my jacket, which was ambitious and incorrect.
Summer Pooja is dead. Long live the girl with three scarves she can't commit to.
Winter, I'm not ready for you. But the J train and I will figure it out.
Love,