Three years ago this week I met Reva, and I've been thinking about the friendship that carried me through my first NYC winter.
We met at a mutual friend's cramped apartment in Crown Heights, both of us new, both of us pretending we understood the subway map. She's from Delhi, I'm from Ahmedabad, and within an hour we were arguing about whether Gujarati food or Punjabi food is superior, which is to say we were already family.
That first winter nearly broke me. My heater died in January. I didn't know how to complain to a super. I cried in a stairwell more than once. And every time, Reva showed up. She'd take the 2 all the way from wherever she was to sit on my freezing floor with samosas from a place on Church Avenue and let me be a mess.
The friendship that outlasted my first NYC winter is the reason I'm still here at all. I almost went home that February. I had the ticket in my cart, the same way I do now for Diwali. She talked me out of it not with a big speech but by saying, "Okay but who will I get momos with."
We have a bench in DUMBO now. Under the Manhattan Bridge, that exact spot where everyone takes the same photo. We go there when one of us is falling apart. We've cried on that bench, laughed until strangers stared, planned entire imaginary lives.
This Sunday we met there again. She's thinking of moving to LA. I felt my stomach drop, then I remembered — the friendship that outlasted my first NYC winter can survive a coast. It survived a broken heater and my worst self. It'll survive geography.
In Hindi films the great love story is always romance. Nobody makes the three-hour epic about the girl who takes two trains to bring you samosas.
Someone should. I'd watch it on repeat.
Tell your Reva you love her. Don't wait for the anniversary.
Love,