The Stranger

I am a stranger here.
Who walks in the desert without a hat, or sunglasses and with a guitar? No Westerner in his right mind would do this. And they know, the people of the desert, I am a Westerner. Firangi they call me, the one with the pale colour. But looking at me, now with this sunburnt face, I wonder why they still call me that, pointing, making a face, running away. I care about it, because I walk the sands, looking for friends. But till now, the only true friend I have, is my music. My songs are my family. Yes, that is how it is. Do I feel sad and lonely? A stranger asked me that, looking at me and wondering. He walked some way with me. I told him, “No. I don’t feel sad and lonely. I have the heat of the sun on my shoulders, the chill of the night in my bones, the songs of my life in my veins. I feel quite alive.” That is what I told him and it is the truth. “I am a stranger here, looking for friends. Does that sound strange to you?” That is what I told him and it is the truth.
“No, he said, “Not strange at all. I am like you too. A traveling man, a singing man. This is my destiny, to find myself in strange lands, with music as company. Not strange at all.” He said this to me and disappeared.
I am not looking for him. I know who he is. He carries a guitar and he walks the desert. He is looking for friends.