William Dalrymple

Dhondup getting his book signed.

Dharamsala Feb 12, William Dalrymple, author of White Mongol read this poem in the Tibetan library. The words lived in the audience and I am beginning to understand what it means to be in exile.

Zafar scrolled these verses on the stable walls after his city was pulverized and he was imprisoned by the British.


When in silks you came and dazzled
Me with the beauty of your spring ,
Your brought a flower to bloom
Lover with in my being

You lived with me, breath of my breath
Being in my being, never left my side;
But now the wheel of time has turned
And you are gone—no joys abide

My life now gives mo ray of light,
I bring to solace to heart or eye;
Out of dust to dust again,
Of no use to anyone am I.

Delhi was once a paradise
Where love held sway and reigned;
But it’s charm lies ravished now
And only ruins remain.

No tears where shed when shrouded they
Where laid in common graces
No prayers were read for the noble dead
Unmarked remain their graves

The heard distressed,
The wounded flesh,
The mind, ablaze, the raising sigh;
The drops of blood, the broken heart,
Tears on the lashes of the eye.

But things cannot remain, O Zafar
Thus, for who can tell?
Through God’s great mercy and
The Prophet
All may yet be well.

After the reading and discussion I go to talk with Dalrymple, I ask him if he has found his new story here in Dharamsala. He tells me about an old man that he has found in a retirement home, if I tell you I would have to kill you (IItyiwhtky), but he has a great new story to tell. Off hand I remark to him that reading this poem in front of this audience is a story in itself, he catches on that idea and says "right" reflectively. I can’t help but think he means “write”.