Going to Rajanpur
Again, I turn the postcard over in my
hands. The edges are worn in the places where my fingers tend to grip the
letter. I stare at the glossy picture and the words “Greetings from Mumbai,”
which are scrawled above a high stone archway. Rajanpur. I close my eyes. We are lying together beneath the
sheets, breathless, and he pulls me in closer. “You looked for me,” he
whispers. “I’ll always look for you.” I flip the postcard once more. Just one
word is written there in unpracticed cursive handwriting. Rajanpur. I’m back beneath the sheets. His favorite color is
cerulean blue and mine is indigo. “Where would you go if you could go anywhere?”
I ask as my finger trails from his nose down his stomach. Rajanpur. I drop the postcard on the floor and pack my bag. Going
to Rajanpur.
