🕯
Welcome to your
room with Bauji.
He's been waiting.
Bauji · Grandfather
1938 – 2021 · Amritsar
▶
Day 4 of 30 · Room closes Jun 12
26 days left
You asked: "Are you proud of me?"
Puttar, pride is what I have felt since the day you were born. I watched you figure out hard things in your own way — quietly, the way our family has always done. You remind me of your naana, the way he used to stay up late thinking. Yes. Always yes. Don't waste another minute asking."
4
of 30 days
Day 4 of 30
The room closes on Jun 12, 2026.
You have 26 days left.
Letters to Bauji
3 letters written · Day 4 of 30
May 10, 2026
Bauji, I kept thinking about the well behind Naani's house in Amritsar today. You used to tell me the water from that well tasted different than anything in the city — that it had memory in it. I finally understand what you meant. Some places hold the people who stood in them. I felt you in the kitchen today when Maa made sarson da saag. I don't know where you go, but you were there.
Tap to read full letter
May 11, 2026
I went to close a deal today that would've made you laugh. Big room, city guys in nice suits, and I sat there thinking: Bauji would've been quiet for five minutes and then said the one sentence that ended the whole conversation. You never wasted words. I'm still learning that. I talked too much. I'll do better.
Tap to read full letter
May 13, 2026
The halwa from the mithai shop on Kapurthala Road — do you remember? You used to bring back one box every time you visited Jalandhar. Maa found a photo of us eating it at the kitchen table, you with that look on your face like you were pretending not to enjoy it, but you always took the biggest piece. I bought halwa today. It wasn't the same. Nothing is the same. But it was still sweet.
Tap to read full letter
🕯
On day 30 — June 12 —
we'll burn this together.
You'll read your letters aloud.
The room will listen.
Then the flame goes out.
You keep everything you wrote.
We keep nothing.
Come back tomorrow.
On day 30, we'll sit together for a few minutes. You'll read the letters you wrote him. Then we'll let the room go — quietly, like the end of a long conversation that needed to happen. You keep your letters. We keep nothing.