Sudha Hari Loves Infinity Times

Chapter 1 – Return to Roots

The winter winds of New York had a rhythm of their own—fast, sharp, and unapologetic. I wrapped my scarf a little tighter and shoved my gloved hands deep into my coat pockets. The city was alive, as always—people rushing past, heads down, lost in their own worlds. Some were late for meetings, some chasing trains, some just trying to stay warm in the biting air. I walked quietly, my breath visible, mingling with the steam from the subway vents. My destination: the familiar green signboard of Starbucks at the corner of 7th Avenue.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered, and warmth welcomed me in. The rich aroma of roasted coffee beans filled the air, a scent that felt like home in a city that rarely paused. I ordered my usual—caramel macchiato—and found a spot by the window. I took a slow sip, feeling the warmth seep into my chest, and let my eyes wander back to the street. New Yorkers walked like their lives depended on each step. Everyone had somewhere to be. No time to look around. No time to feel.

As I was lost in that still moment of observation, my phone buzzed in my pocket. "FirstLove calling" flashed across the screen. I smiled, already knowing what this was about.

"Hello, AMMA"

“Hari , don’t forget.Your brother’s wedding. Be on time! The flight is at 10 PM—don’t you be late, haan?”

I chuckled, taking another sip of coffee. “Okay, okay AMMA. I know. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

"Bye, Sweet Son," she said, the usual warmth in her voice.

"Bye, AMMA," I replied.

And just like that, my New York rhythm was interrupted—but pleasantly so. I gulped down the last of my coffee, stepped out into the cold once again, and walked back toward my apartment. There was a strange excitement growing in me. India. Home. After so many years.

Back in my apartment, I packed in a flurry—jeans, t-shirts, charger, gifts, passport. My hands moved fast, but my mind had already drifted somewhere else. Memories—of family dinners, train journeys, monsoons, childhood cricket matches, narrow lanes, and her.

The flight was long, and somewhere over the Atlantic, I began to feel the weight of time catching up with me. I sipped apple juice quietly and nibbled on the flight meal before slipping into an uneasy sleep. But peace didn’t last long—wails of crying children pierced the cabin air and dragged me out of my nap. I smiled to myself; some things never changed.

After a trip to the restroom, I returned to my seat, plugged in my headphones, and picked a random movie from the in-flight entertainment. Something about a man chasing a dream or a woman searching for her past—I couldn’t really tell, but the screen flickered as the engines hummed and soon, sleep claimed me again.

A few hours later, an announcement broke the silence: “We will be landing shortly in Hyderabad, India. Local time is…”

India.

As the wheels touched down, a strange mix of nerves and nostalgia filled me. My home. My land. After all this time.

Outside the airport, I scanned the crowd until I heard a familiar voice over the phone.

“Hari! Look to your left, bro. See that orange t-shirt? That’s me!”

I turned and laughed. “Vamsi, you haven’t changed.”

We hugged like brothers reunited after years and walked toward the car, our steps light with old memories.

Back at his apartment, we chatted over steaming idlis and crisp dosas from Zomato, gossiping about friends, life, and the world in between. After freshening up, I stretched out on the couch, let my eyes close, and allowed myself to feel something I hadn’t in a while—peace.

When I woke up, the orange hues of evening light were slipping through the curtains. It was time to go home—truly home.

The road to Vijayawada was familiar yet changed. New shops, new cars, but the soul of the city—the colors, the chaos, the sounds—still intact. The scent of roadside chai stalls, the honking of impatient auto-rickshaws, the buzz of life—it all came rushing back.

As I entered the lanes of my childhood, something stirred deep within. I was back where it all began. Back to the place where love had found me—and changed me forever.

The memories hadn’t just returned—they were alive again.

And somewhere deep inside, I knew: this journey wasn’t just for my brother’s wedding. It was a return to the beginning of everything.