The reason I call this book Letters to Gulab is because the first time I ever bled, it was for a rose. I remember running through the garden, small and breathless, trying to pluck one for my great-grandmother, and the thorn burying itself deep into my finger, like pain learning my name for the first time. I remember her hands, steady and soft, pulling it out, unafraid of the blood, uncaring that the rose had been crushed in the process. She only cared for the skin I lived in, for the little bones that held me upright. Ever since, she was the one to pull the thorns out of my life, one by one, as if love itself were made of bandages and quiet mercy. When she went to sleep for the last time this year, it felt like the final thorn was hers to take with her. So, I wrote this book for her; every page a rib and every word a petal pressed into the shape of her name: Gulab.