The Ball They are here in the breathing air of the room, many centuries which have passed. Old Ganges mirroring the Saat mosque; this sample of Mughal art, an etching by Chughtai; the final resting place of Shah Jalal of Yemen; and this, a marvelous expression of the soul's craving— the Taj. Time peeping through the colorful sheets of the calendar on the wall. A constant longing in the heart to capture this wild gazelle. Far in the field, towards a ball that was tossed, leapt several dogs. My Dreams are Wild Why still this yearning? I cannot deceive myself any longer. It's true you've been complaining; it's true I've changed a little; it's true my heartbeats will no longer cure another heart's loneliness. My dreams are now wild and homeless. AH this is true. "Why is it true?" you ask me. But how do I tell you why I'm different from others? Translated by Faruq Hassan Annual of Urdu Studies, #6 76