This isn’t the first time I’m trying to write a letter home. Every time my pen touches paper to write about Boston - after reminiscing looking at photos from my time there for hours, I blank. I had so many quips, things to say. I sounded like Steinbeck in flesh, but I blank. I’ll try again - it is impertinent to start all stories at the beginning. It may seem like it is the middle of another stories, but that’s how stories are. A story, in essence, always starts at the beginning. Let us first resolve the superego of loyalty. I grew up in Bombay, as is less affectionately is called Mumbai. I was born in Patna, a town a British coloniser loved much to the point of naming a poor Scottish village after - what he saw in it yet I do not know. I find myself writing more about Patna (my latest SciFi is based in 2000s rural outskirts of Patna) - and now about Boston. Something is missing, from Bombay, I think. I deeply love Bombay, I cannot stress this enough. But I never had to be accepted there, I was never worried (spare briefly due to bigotry of a few political parties), I grew to love Bombay and Maharashtrian culture and view it as my own. Even now, as iOS doesn’t recognize the word Maharashtrian, I can’t help but feel offended.
Boston was different. I want to write about Boston in case I never go back, or worse, I forget.
Right after the undergraduate spent at home, locked down during COVID, we moved to Bangalore. Another beautiful city we must stop at before we get to Boston. We spent a year or so there, and grew fond of this gorgeous, wonderful city. We grew to have friends we loved like family. To this day, these are the people I will fight for as if I grew with them. The day we had to leave, our hearts were shattered. It was such a heavy moment - the fleetingness of it all - I was leaving my work, the cat we fostered, the city and her many, flawed but flawless roads, the many people we met and the many people we loved.
This was where we spent a lot of time in the mornings and towards evening, if not in our little studio. This heartbreak was like a fever. I could see it coming, and yet it was so much worse that I imagined. In the after math of COVID, I feared to call it so, but now I speak freely.
After spending a few months back home in Bombay, to prepare and spend time with family, we were ready to fly to BOS, via AMS. My only regret is not having more photos with my family, and however many I will have, it won’t be enough.
Much like every stone you see at a beach, with knowledge if left untouched, you shall never feel it again, so it stands for moments.
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” Heraclitus
Such is true for all the cities that came before (and I’m sparing you my memories from Tamil Nadu). I can’t go home, for the city isn’t the same, and neither am I.
That’s where Boston comes in.
Boston feels much like your first snow in Boston, if you’ve never seen snow. You’ve never expected something so white. That was right there, I had to make that joke. Boston isn’t overly white, it’s diverse, even in her own whiteness. I do feel this joke is taking too long to explain. I will move on.
Boston feels much like your first snow. You don’t expect it to be like that. I didn’t expect the city to be so historic, modern and empty.
The first night we stay in a we stayed in Boston, at a hotel near the airport, a lady was kind enough to assume when we said “India” when asked where we’re flying from, that we said “Indiana”. She was old and white, and a lot was said about the demographic by young men on YouTube talking about Karens and racists. It all melted away into a comfortable blanket. Her comment was innocent, and she wasn’t a Bostonian, but she did us, aspiring young travelers to the beautiful land of America, a favor by assuming we’re from Indiana. “Well, you’ve got to live somewhere”. Indiana. The home of Speedway, Indy500. The home of Larry Bird and Axl Rose - beacons of whiteness. And Wes Montgomery and Michael Jackson - beacon of American music and Black excellence. No South Asian has ever lived in Indiana. This is the home of the Miami and the Potawatomi, amongst others. Still she assumed. I harken to this point for a while, but authors when intimate should be allowed to be vulnerable. I spare you the details of the jams they had, or trying out some American cereals for the first time. Mostly because that story will come into this memoir of sorts anyhow later. Cereals and America.
Since we didn’t have US credit or debit cards, via complicated means, we ordered Wendy’s. I’ve only ever had Wendy’s twice since. I’ve learnt my lesson. I got me a chicken sandwich or something of the sort - it was all very disappointing because the sandwich was small. I may have read labels incorrectly. I also ordered a giant diet dr. Pepper. The taste of the Anthropocene.