Bronxmoon: Finding Home in the Bronx

When I first heard of the Bronx, it was through the lens of Hollywood-movies like Rumble in the Bronx and Finding Forrester shaped my impression. Gritty. Unsafe. Definitely not a place you’d want to land if you were moving to America. And yet, that’s exactly where I found myself: in the Bronx, to attend the Albert Einstein College of Medicine.

Two weeks later, 9/11 happened. My new life in the U.S. began with the shattering of illusions-not just of what the Bronx would be like, but of what America itself was. Before I moved, every American I spoke to simply said they were from the “US.” It was only when pressed that they’d mention their state. Ask an Indian where they’re from, and you’ll hear “Tamil Nadu” or “Gujarat” before you ever get “India.” It was my first glimpse into cultural difference-how we anchor identity.

Slowly, the Bronx began transforming from a set of preconceptions into a living, breathing home. My blank-floor-and-walls apartment grew warmer with each floor lamp I added, every piece of secondhand furniture I chose. I still remember the “Babies Are Here!” billboards at the Bronx Zoo, and the quiet peace of the New York Botanical Garden-not exactly the images I’d carried from the movies.

One sleepless night, I found myself taking photos of the moon peeking through my window. That moon-steady, gentle, luminous-became my anchor. I started blogging under the name “Bronxmoon,” a name that still lives in a quiet corner of the internet, cradling those first attempts at writing, at understanding myself.

The Bronx is where I first fell in love-in every sense of the word. With someone, yes, but also with independence, with a version of myself I had never met before. It was the first time I set up a home, managed a life, and defined my own rhythms. Years later, when I packed up that life in just 12 days to move to Japan, I reminded myself: “If I could do it in New York, I can do it anywhere.”

The Bronx gave me more than just a place to stay-it gave me my first true canvas. Those empty walls weren’t just blank space; they were invitations. Each lamp, each cozy corner, each small decision was an assertion: I get to choose. I get to create. I get to become.

And it wasn’t just about furniture or friendships. It was the little discoveries too. New York-style bagels. Phrases like “smear me.” And the iconic garlic knots. To this day, when I make garlic knots at home, people are both surprised and delighted. They ask for them again. They wait for them on their next visit. There’s something about tearing into soft, buttery knots laced with garlic that evokes pure joy-something I first tasted in the Bronx.

The movies never showed me that. They didn’t show me the community, the warmth, the quiet beauty of moonlight or the comfort of carbs. The Bronx defied every narrative I’d absorbed-and gave me a new one to live.

When I left for Japan, I carried with me not just suitcases but resilience. The kind that comes from remaking your world from scratch. The Bronx taught me that preconceptions dissolve in the face of lived experience, that homes are not found-they’re built. And rebuilt. And sometimes packed up in two weeks and created all over again.

Sometimes we need to journey far from what we know to truly meet ourselves. For me, that journey began in the Bronx-with its unexpected tenderness, its gritty streets and green spaces, its bagels and garlic knots, its moon.

And somewhere online, Bronxmoon still shines-a quiet archive of illumination, resilience, and beginning again.

Originally published at https://pratibhascuriousity.substack.com.