My uncle in rural Punjab still calls the entire family together over landline conference call for anything even mildly significant, refusing every suggestion of a group chat despite owning a smartphone he clearly knows how to use for other things. "WhatsApp, chacha," my cousin pleaded, during yet another forty-minute call to announce a job promotion that could've been a single text. "Everyone's already online right now." "A message you can ignore," he said. "A voice you cannot skip past." I found this stubborn and mildly ridiculous until the week my grandfather's health took a sudden turn, and my uncle called every single relative himself, one by one, voice by voice, rather than let a single person find out through a screen. "Why not just send one message to everyone at once," I asked him afterward, genuinely curious now instead of annoyed. "Bad news travels faster on paper," he said. "I wanted people to hear my voice shake a little, if it was going to shake. Text doesn't shake. I needed them to know I meant it, not just typed it." My grandfather recovered, eventually, slowly. My uncle made the calls again to share that too, same method, same voice, this time steady and relieved instead of trembling. The family still has a group chat. It sits mostly unused for anything that matters. The big things still travel by phone call, uncle to cousin to aunt, voice to voice, exactly the way he insists they should.