Biting the Big Apple: Falling in love and getting heartbroken in New York
THE CITY NEVER WAITS FOR ANYONE, AND NEW YORK LEAST OF ALL. IT GREETED me with cold arms and a sharp slap, a place that consumed me before I could even exhale. It was autumn when I arrived, and the air carried a nip I had never known. The trees stood naked, their leaves scattered like broken promises across the pavements. The scent of musk lingered thick in the air, a perfume of decay and resilience. When I looked up, all I could see was grey. Grey skies, grey buildings, grey streets stretching endlessly, as though the city had forgotten how to hold colour. And yet, beneath that lifeless grey, there was vitality. New York pulsed with an energy I could feel in my bones, its people moving with purpose, their footsteps quick and sharp, their voices slicing through the chill.
I had come to New York with love in my chest and hope trembling in my hands. Robert was my reason, the man who had held me close in the swaying berth of an Indian train, his arms a cocoon where I first learnt the meaning of safety. We had built our love in the chaos of Delhi, under the flickering lights of markets that never slept and the warmth of nights filled with whispered dreams. He was the anchor of my life, the reason I had dared to cross oceans and continents to study at the School of Visual Arts. I had imagined us together in this city, our lives entwined against the backdrop of its relentless rhythm.
But love stories, like cities, are unpredictable. Robert had promised to join me, to leave Paris behind and build a life with me in New York. And he did come, just before Christmas, but he didn’t stay. The night he arrived, I waited at the airport, my heart pounding with anticipation. I watched the planes land one by one, each arrival teasing me with the possibility of his face. But he never appeared.
By the time the final flight from France landed, the terminal was empty, and I was alone. When we finally met the next day, I poured out my heart to him over dinner. I told him how much I had missed him, how deeply I craved him, how my life felt hollow without his presence. I handed him a Tiffany box containing two silver rings, a symbol of the life I had imagined for us.
He said nothing. Later, in the back seat of a cab, he sat with his luggage beside him, silent and distant. When the cab stopped, he didn’t follow me out. The door slammed shut, and he disappeared into the night.
That sound—the finality of it—reverberated through my chest like the cracking of bone. I stood on the street, trembling, my breath caught in my throat. I cried out into the cold air, howling with a grief so profound it seemed to paralyse even my voice. And then there was silence. I cried without tears, without breath, my body hollowed out by his absence. Somehow, I whispered to myself, I’m here. I’m here to stay. I had to be. The city demanded it. And so, I stood up.
Winter descended soon after, bringing snow, sleet and a dampness that seeped into every corner of my being. The nights felt endless, the darkness wrapping itself around the city like a shroud. And yet, even in the starkness of winter, there was warmth. The people of New York refused to be subdued. Couples held hands on icy pavements, their breath visible in the frosty air. Strangers shared fleeting smiles, their scarves wrapped tightly against the chill. It was as if the city itself was willing me to keep moving, to survive.
Mary Ann Joulwan was my saviour in those early days. She became my family, my anchor, the voice of reason when I felt adrift. On New Year’s Eve, she brought me to her home and laid out a feast of lentil soup, fattoush, hummus and warm pita. We toasted with Martinelli’s sparkling cider, her crystal flutes catching the light like tiny stars.
“Kiddo,” she said, her voice steady and kind, “you’re fabulous. You’re gorgeous. The world is yours. Don’t waste your time on bygones.” She gave me strength when I didn’t have it in myself, her words a lifeline that carried me through the long winter nights.
When spring arrived, it felt like a revelation. The linden trees blossomed, their fragrance sweet and heady, filling the air with hope. Tulips and lilies lined the streets, their vibrant colours painting Manhattan in a kaleidoscope of renewal. Central Park came alive, its paths buzzing with life, and I walked through it as if discovering the world for the first time.
Summer followed, lush and green, its warmth seeping into the city’s bones. The parks were filled with people, their laughter echoing through the air, and for a moment, I allowed myself to believe that I, too, could bloom again.
It was during this tentative rebirth that I met Richard. He was everything I thought I wanted—rugged, raw and achingly beautiful. His presence was magnetic, his touch electric, and I fell for him with a reckless abandon that I couldn’t control.
But Richard was a thief, a man who gave just enough to make me stay while taking everything I had to give. He stole from me—money, antiques, even my computer—and then disappeared without a trace. And yet, when he left, he didn’t leave scars. What he left me with was my dignity, my grace and the realization that I was more than the sum of what he had taken.
Stephanos came next, statuesque and fleeting, a Greek American with a heart as kind as his face was beautiful. He took me into his life with a quiet tenderness, and together, we built something fragile and fleeting. We cooked meals that tasted like home, shared stories that felt like gifts and even bought a bird to keep us company. He took me to Philadelphia to meet his family, where his godmother made us spanakopita with hands that seemed to know the weight of love. But as time passed, we realized our love wasn’t meant to last. We parted as friends, his presence a bridge to the next chapter of my life.
MY THIRD LOVER was the anchor I hadn’t known I needed. Twelve years my senior, he was steady, sophisticated and full of quiet strength. Together, we created a home that was more than a place—it was a sanctuary. In our Greenwich Village apartment, I discovered the transformative power of cooking. I worked my way through Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, perfecting dishes like tarte tatin, where patience was the key to caramelizing the apples just right. Cooking became my language of love, a way of connecting to others and to myself.
Our parties were legendary, the tandoor glowing brightly even in snowstorms, a beacon of warmth against the city’s cold.
But love, even when deep and true, is not always enough. I was young, hungry for adventure, and often reckless with my desires. I strayed, exploring my sexuality, and in doing so, I broke his heart. Yet, he forgave me—once, twice, three times. He was kinder than I deserved, and even as our relationship unravelled, we supported one another. When a famous Hollywood actor offered me a job as a private chef, he encouraged me to chase the dream. But when I turned it down—refusing to compromise my principles—he didn’t question my choice. He respected me, even in the moments when I didn’t respect myself.
Through it all, New York remained my crucible, the fire that shaped me into who I am. Its cultural experiences were as vast as its skyline, from Shakespeare in the Park with Mary Ann to the Gay Pride Parade that passed through our home in Greenwich Village. My parents visited once, and we watched the parade from our neighbour’s window on Christopher Street and 10th. Below us, a sea of humanity stretched endlessly—men, women and everyone in between, dressed and undressed, flamboyant and sober, all marching with pride. It was a feast for the eyes, a testament to the city’s resilience and its refusal to let anyone be invisible.
Cooking became my anchor, a way of grounding myself in a world that often felt too big. Karari Bhindi, my crispy okra salad, wasn’t just a dish; it was a lifeline. It became a mainstay at Devi, the restaurant I opened in 2004, and was later named one of Food & Wine magazine’s forty best dishes of the last forty years. It was the dish I cooked when I was homesick for India, the dish I poured my heart into, infusing it with both the longing and the resilience that had carried me through New York.
Race, too, became a constant thread in my life there. I saw it in the way Upper East Side matrons ignored the dark-skinned nannies who cared for their dogs, in the way strangers looked past me if my skin was too tanned, in the way I was always the other. And yet, in those moments of otherness, I found strength. I learned to navigate the city with resilience, to embrace my identity even when it felt like a burden.
New York broke me and rebuilt me. It taught me to celebrate the fleeting and cherish the enduring. It taught me to find beauty in loss, to see heartbreak as a beginning rather than an end. Through Robert, Richard, Stephanos and my third lover; through Mary Ann, Bobby, Bibhu and countless others; through the euphoria and loneliness, the heartbreak and healing, I became who I am—a man unafraid to love, to trust, to live.
Even now, I carry these memories like treasures. They are the architecture of my heart, the foundation of a life lived fully, unapologetically. And for that, I am grateful.