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”.

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.

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