Once upon a time in New York, there lived a guy hopelessly, shamelessly, irrationally in love with Bangalore. Spoiler alert: that guy is me.

Every time I walked through Port Authority, I couldn’t help but think of Majestic bus stand. The smell wasn’t the same, obviously. Majestic had the fragrance of diesel fumes, roasted peanuts, and mild chaos. Port Authority smelled like overpriced pretzels and disappointment. But to me, it was all connected. One bus terminal whispering to another across continents.

Those yellow cabs were like the distant American cousins of Bangalore autos. Except here nobody argued about double meter, which made me deeply suspicious. If the driver isn’t threatening to overcharge you, is it even transportation?

I’d stare up at the Empire State Building, that gleaming symbol of American ambition, and convince myself I was just looking at UB City after a growth spurt. Same energy, just fewer Birkin bags.

Food, though, was a whole different heartbreak. I traded crispy masala dosas for floppy pizza slices, but mozzarella has never, and will never, fill the void left by coconut chutney and sambar. Croissants were fine too, but they never gave me the chaotic happiness of an egg puff from an Iyengar Bakery, the kind that crumbles all over your white shirt five minutes before an exam.

The subway? Oh, don’t get me started. Everyone glorifies it like it’s some miracle of modern infrastructure. Me? I just missed the purple and green lines of Namma Metro, where delays came with at least a side of familiarity. Flea markets in Brooklyn looked cute, sure, but nothing came close to Commercial Street, where bargaining is both an Olympic sport and a birthright.

And every time the New York sky turned gray, Bangalore drifted through my mind like a cloud carrying monsoon memories. Central Park was nice. Pretty, spacious, green. But it wasn’t Cubbon Park. The trees in New York might have been taller, but the feeling? Nowhere close.

So there I was, walking through New York City, carrying a piece of Bangalore tucked in my chest pocket. Because no matter where life takes you, no matter how tall the skyscrapers or how crispy the bagels, there’s no place like home. And sometimes, home isn’t just a city. It’s the coconut chutney, the purple metro line, and an egg puff that refuses to be replaced.

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