The Last Letter

When my grandfather passed away, we found a small envelope tucked inside one of his books.

Inside was a handwritten letter in Sindhi.

None of my cousins could read it.

My mother sat quietly for almost an hour translating it sentence by sentence. It wasn't about money or family property. It was simply advice.

He wrote about kindness, keeping the language alive, and never being ashamed of where we came from.

That afternoon I realized something that surprised me.

We almost lost his final words—not because the paper disappeared, but because we had slowly forgotten how to read our own language.

Since then I've started learning Sindhi one word at a time.