I inserted my bookmark , took a quick look at the page number and laid the book next to my pillow before I switched off the lights and curled up in bed for a much needed rest. I wanted to stare at the ceiling and make sense of the day, something I have gotten used to since a few months, but that night I immediately went off into a reverie.
So, this is the night I call “The Night of the Three Dreams”. And if ever I have seen clearer, it has only been in a meditative state. What later struck me was the clarity with which my brain played out the whole scene, and how I could recall every single detail from the colour of the shirts to the content of letters, something I barely notice in my everyday life.
While my body succumbed to the fatigue from working all day, my mind switched on and cruised onto the freeway of thoughts, eager to generate those creepy chemicals that keep you awake even while you sleep.
It was a letter in my hand. I could not see what had been written in the top half of the letter nor to whom it was addressed. But even in dreams one does not lose the sense of knowing that permeates through one’s entire soul , and before I had read the contents of the letter , I knew who I had written it for, for I knew from the signature below that it was a letter I had written. I do not recall what my emotional state was at the time I was reading the letter, but now I can say that this very thought that it was written by my own hand, has lowered my self-worth. The contents of the letter were cheap and rather than on a piece of white clean paper that I had written them on, the words deserved some greasy soiled paper. The exact words from the letter I do not remember much, but I may be excused for this. It included a fair bit about how much I loved her and how I would even kill to be with her. Then the tone changed and I demanded she love me in return. The letter reflected the thoughts of the lowest of beings, and it was only inevitable that the end would leave me disgusted with myself. However, one can take a man out of football but never the football out of him. The last line, and this I remember distinctly, went thus – “ I will love you as much as Aguero loves scoring goals”. It would have been funny, really it ought to have been even. But the bitterness in the mouth cannot be removed by laughter alone. And I drifted off towards calmer waters for some time.
I felt his presence, but I was afraid to open my eyes lest he enter through the door and I actually see him. I could hear him even. He spoke in a garbled tongue, a language not understandable to me. But I knew he was accusing me of something, and my guilt was forcing me to keep my eyes shut. I remember not what the accusation was or even what it could have been, but it was heavy on my mind. I thought I understood who he was. I opened my eyes and turned my head around towards him, for things not inside your vision tend to be more troublesome than the ones your eyes deem as reality. He rushed towards me with lightning speed and right in from of my face he brought his face, which was now not so recognizable, and he said “ You know!”, and disappeared. I opened my eyes and right in front of my face lay “Crime and Punishment”, with my bookmark sticking out. When the mind plays tricks on you, take solace in a good read. I stumbled, half asleep, out of the bedroom and opened the book to page 204.
We were going someplace I think, as, in the dream I had not the feeling of aimlessness. Y, G and me, though my memory is muddled regarding a fourth person who might or might not have been with us, but who as is expected in dreams, appeared later on out of nowhere. So, anyways I shall assume the lack thereof of this fourth person, and we shall go on a joyride with Y and G. Y was in the driver’s seat with G beside him and me directly behind Y, who was driving notoriously rashly. We escaped dashing into the back of a truck, and I was very nervous about it. So it wasn’t a surprise really when Y put his foot down on the accelerator and unable to negotiate a turn, we went right off the flyover , flew through the air and landed on the roof of a building under construction. It was a Hollywood like accident where the car flips like a hundred times in the air and the passengers still manage to come out unhurt but for a few bruises. The thing to pay attention to here is that while in the air, I knew I was getting off unhurt, as if it was me who held the reins to the going ons. So as soon as we landed with a crash, I got out of the car, obviously unhurt. I was wearing my favourite white and blue striped sleeved shirt and it had not a speck of dust on it. G too, remained mostly unhurt and had only a few bruises to show for all the car gymnastics. Y came of a little worse, with some injuries, visible, on his face and his light brown shirt dirtied with mud and what looked like traces of blood.
This is the part that I am unsure I will be able to do justice to in words. What followed was an exploration of my own thinking, of my psyche. And just that fact that I am describing my own dream, leaves a lot to be desired about the veracity of what follows. It is not my wish to twist the thoughts or feelings but if the innate me is a joyless tinkerer, I shall end up farther away from the reality in my dreams.
I wasn’t hurt much. My limbs were functional and except for a strangeness, and the lucidity of my experiences, or rather lack of, I was pretty much proud of my having come unhurt. What man, who is not Bruce Willis, shrugs off such accidents as mere trifles? Me. And so it stayed for some time, till rather unfashionably, the fourth person materialized out of thin air and decided that Y was in need of medical support. With a very very unsteady hand behind the wheel, the car took off with Y and the fourth person, and before I had a chance to re gather the suddenness of this incident, G had disappeared, heaven knows where and how.
Like a man gripped by solitude, troubled by the ignorance of others in spotting his heroics, I had turned into a man with drooping shoulders, hands limp by the sides, waiting to be shown pity for the accident, wishing fervently for a mere passerby to acknowledge the accident and throw at him a pitiful word or two.
“I must have some wounds ofcourse!”, is what I could have been thinking if my dreams had dialogues. “ Surely I didn’t go through all this, without a compassionate end?”. I walked to a hospital, a dingy place that resembled one of those government office which are filled with records and where the workers rarely do anything but sneeze and smoke. I waited patiently ( hehe) for a doctor to arrive. If self pity had not consumed my brain, I would have reflected on my desperation, on how I truly wished for affection even if from a doctor.
I was distracted for a mere second by a madman clambering over a three storey high fence, staring me in the eye as he slipped away. And while this madman lay seize on my thoughts, a ruffian (who as would suit a dream, appeared out of nowhere) tore off my shirt sleeve revealing a stunning calligraphy of bruises and cuts. A minute later another ruffian started to tear off my shirt in anticipation of more wounds. I distinctly remember, how I had no clue of why they were doing it, and if they were the medical staff. I had a deep cut on my stomach but no pain nor blood, until I started fiddling with the cut eager to examine the damage done.
This is the part that eventually led me to start out of my sleep to find myself shivering and completely disoriented. Blood started to flow out like a mighty river from the wound, while I unsure of what that meant for me, tried to stop this flow with my hands. With the cup formed by my hands full of blood and more eagerly pushing forward through the clean slit in my stomach, I thought of Lakshmi, of Pala and of Here and Now. It was my body, my blood and I ought to be able to stop it. My mom ( yes she too appeared suddenly out of nowhere) had a hand on my shoulder and seemed to be saying “Meditate”. Everything seemed to be saying that. I sat down crossed legged and tried on concentrate on myself, on my stomach, on my blood, to try to distribute my blood to other parts of the body. I was suddenly disturbed by the thought of death. I could clearly see the amount of blood I was losing, and without second thought I started to calculate the amount of time I had left before my body was hollow and bloodless. Panic. Panic. No more meditations. How could I dare to think I could achieve such a state when all my life has been but a lack of meditative state? Fool! I was going to die. These people around me weren’t doctors. I needed a doctor. But what if I died on the operation table? What if I died, because I had simply failed to have complete control on my body? Fool! How would it feel like to die knowing you are a weakling?