The first time my paternal grandfather saw his ancestral village after 1947, now in Pakistan, was through a YouTube vlog from 2020. He had been a teenager back in 1947, engaged in innocent mischief when he wasn’t earning the highest grades in Urdu, the subject he would later pursue formally and earn a degree in. More than seventy years later, the village in the vlog appeared much as he had left it. The buildings destroyed during the communal riots of 1947 still lay in ruins, with the same slow-paced life continuing alongside. With more years behind him, my grandfather speaks more about his childhood in the village and less about the political history that surrounds it. There was a home left behind, with fertile fields, hard labor, balmy weather, clear streams, heartbreak, friendship, and the tart sweetness of falsas.