When I first came to these United States, of the few CDs I had with me were those of Gulzar. However I used to avoid listening to them except on some long afternoons, when I felt it was appropriate to allow myself to feel longing for a country from which I had eagerly sought escape, or voluntary exile as I called it. Milan Kundera wrote something along those lines somewhere, in the novel 'Forgetting' I think.

Gulzar was also there at the begining of a relationship forged on a long roadtrip, and he was there at its explosive end, intoning words in his gravelly voice.

This evening as it has proved impossible for me to do any work, I invited Gulzar again into this tomb of books, old laughs, and night time noises. He came readily, with his bag of poems, which he has been reciting in my ear for the past many hours as we drink some vodka together.

And I in that half drunk state have been putting his words into half baked foetry. Still purpose served. Folks who want to drink direct from the source can listen to the orginals recited here.

Early this morning, when I heard A knock on the door in a dream, I opened the door and looked out.

And saw that some guests from across The border were standing there, travel weary. Their faces looked familiar. So I welcomed Them into the courtyard, gave them water To wash up, made some thick maize rotis For breakfast on the coal stove, and laid Out cots for them to recline. These guests had brought my share Of jaggery from the past harvests.

When I opened my eyes I saw that There was no one here, yet the coals Were still warm, and my mouth was Still sticky with jaggery.

It must have been a dream. Yes, it was a dream.

I heard that at the border, last night There was gunfire. I heard that at The border last night, few dreams Were summarily executed.

Translated from Hindustani