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The India of Postcards
- Southern Illinois University Press
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The India of Postcards We began in one corner of the city and plowed through cows and dung and scooters, marbled and dusted streets to the other.We were high on heat and medicine. Anything to protect our ourselves from disease, and there were so many—cholera, malaria, meningitis. All sounding soft and beautiful on our lips, full of vowels and danger. The only thing we wanted we couldn’t have: water—unbottled, unboiled—pure, sweet, American-tasting water.With every sip, a prayer to one of the gods: the god of good health and an easy flight home, the god of treasures hidden away in crowded street stalls. There were other things, of course—trinkets made of colored glass, hand-painted boxes, raw silk—anything to say we had been there. Something to hang on the walls of our tiny apartments.We were looking for the gods, for the one thing that shimmered more than silver, a pyramid or temple, a country—something we couldn’t fit into our pockets.We wanted the India of postcards with our faces on the front. Under all that glitter, we wanted the shards of something we can’t name. ...