Yesterday, I bought a postcard from my favorite bookstore in the city. It has a photo of a little mountain boy on it. Looks like a 10 year old. Rosy cheeks. Messy hair. Dark brown eyes, full of dreams. Wearing a Pakol, playing with sheep. I traced my fingers over it, smiling to myself. . Today, I am writing you a postcard from my favorite cafe in the city. The woman who works here never forgets to keep my coffee strong. Sweet woman. I am trying to write a poem but I can’t seem to find words. I can’t stop staring at this beautiful little boy. Happy in his wilderness, playing with his sheep. So I will write just 3 words – “This is you.” . Tomorrow, I will put this postcard in a paper boat and row it through Beas to Jhelum. I hope Bulbul picks it up and keeps it under the most beautiful Chinar of your city. I hope you smile when you see it. I hope you never fear the high tides of the sea. Instead, you flow. Flow, freely. Be my water, for I will be your shore. I hope you never give up on your dreams, but I also hope you never stop playing with your sheep. . Tomorrow, I will send you this postcard, scented with love, inked with hope, through Beas to Jhelum. I hope it reaches you.