Stories From My Travels | First Trip I Remember

I was three, cranky, and sweating on a train somewhere in Mumbai. I don’t remember the destination. I don’t even remember the ride.

But I remember my grandmother—gently holding me, humming something sweet, trying to make me smile. I remember my grandfather pulling faces just to hear me laugh.

The memory’s a blur, but the love was sharp. Soft hands, warm smiles, endless patience.

That trip wasn’t about where we went.

It was about who carried me there.

Love,

Afia