I remember a handmade planchette board. My parents and my uncle and aunt. I sat there with a notebook and a pen in anticipation of a spirit.
And, someone suggested we call Mirza Ghalib. Mirza Ghalib!
After some minutes, a spirit arrived.
“My name is Ghalib.” I noted it down in my notebook.
My father was rather drunk and he, I think, really believed it.
Everyone asked questions. My father asked him, a little inappropriately I think, who did he become in his next life?
Lorca? A Spanish poet, my father told us. He was assassinated.
Did he ever marry Chaudvin? Chaudvin was the name of his lover, I think. Maybe not.
In this life.
He married her in this life. He runs a bakery now.
Today, someone asked me who Ghalib was.
He was a Spanish poet, I said.