My Dear Unfurlers,
There’s something beautifully unexplainable about the love of Indian grandparents.
It’s in the way they wake up before the sun, mumble quiet prayers, and start the day with routines older than we are. It’s in the smell of something slowly cooking in the kitchen, in the creak of a wooden chair, in the newspaper that’s folded just right.
My grandparents don’t need fancy words to show love. It’s in their actions—the way they keep refilling my plate even after I’ve said “enough,” the way they notice when I’m quiet, or the way they ask if I’ve been sleeping well, eating well, living well.
They tell me stories from a world that feels like another planet—when phones had no screens, when buses came once a day, when people wrote real letters. But somehow, those stories still teach me more than my textbooks do.
Yes, they can be strict. Yes, they repeat things. Yes, they don’t always understand why I stay glued to a screen. But they understand me. And that’s more than I can say for most people.
They are protectors, memory-keepers, and soft places to land. And even if they sometimes seem stuck in the past, they’ve given me the values that help me build my future.
This one’s for them—for the quiet strength, the fierce love, and the gentle hands that hold generations together.
Unfolding dreams, one word at a time.
— Caspian Wren
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