Everything was yellow.
We’d been traveling for days, from New York City to Niagara, and by the time we reached Buffalo to drop off the rental, everything was starting to blur. It was my birthday week. My parents were here after two years. Hemin had come from Canada. For the first time in years, it felt like we were a family again, not just a group chat across time zones.
After returning the car, the plan was simple: Hemin would head back to Canada, and we’d take a bus from Niagara State Park back to New York City, then fly back to Houston the next morning. Except, plans rarely go as planned.
When Hemin said he’d just leave from the airport, Maa went quiet. She didn’t say much, just that kind of silence that mothers have when their hearts protest but their words don’t. I think he wanted to leave fast, before anyone got emotional. But a few minutes later, he called. Said he’d come with us to the park before heading back. Maybe he missed his bus. Maybe he changed his mind. Either way, maa smiled, and the air felt lighter again.
The cab dropped us off near the park, right outside a tiny Punjabi restaurant, the kind that smells like home even before you step in. The light inside was warm, yellow, soft against the cold air. We hadn’t had a real meal in days, just food carts, gas station snacks, and Taco Bell in moving cars.
Pappa said, “Let’s eat here before we leave.”
Hemin said, “You guys eat, I’ll go.”
We asked once more, and he stayed.
We opened the Venchi chocolates that my cousin from New York had brought for us, half-melted from the drive, and laughed about how we never manage to eat things at the right time. We ordered too much food, like always: samosas, parathas, paneer, chai, coffee, iced tea.
Pappa started telling his favorite old stories, the ones that circle back to themselves halfway through. Hemin bullied me the way only brothers can, equal parts annoying and affectionate. Maa laughed the loudest, tilting her head back, eyes crinkled at the corners.
The whole place smelled like ghee and rain on metal. The kind of smell you don’t realize you miss until it’s right there in front of you again. We ate until we couldn’t anymore. Talked until the waiter started clearing tables around us. And for the first time in days, no one was in a hurry.
After dinner, Hemin found a ride back to Toronto. We walked to the park for our bus, the night air cold, the mist from Niagara lit in blue and red. Maa took photos. Pappa stood beside her. I held a paper cup of chai and just watched them.
It’s strange, you plan a whole trip thinking the highlight will be the big things: the cruise, the falls, the skyline. But the memory that stays is always something small.
That restaurant.
The fogged windows.
The chocolates half-melted, and still perfect.
And the feeling that there was nowhere else to be.
