I had a dream last night.
I was drunk, drinking away the passing of one of my relatives, lets call him Ashok. My world was 3 friends and some broken down shanties. And people. Just these nameless, identity craving creatures, just walking around all over my little drunken, dream world. The first involvement of mine, as I remember, was hearing a drunk friend of mine calling Ashok's existence worthless. He was ranting about how Ashok was just a middle class guy, who, although made an excellent living for his family, was bound by the rules of the favorite Indian game, Playing it Safe. He never really explored the heights, breadths and depths, the vastness of life, really. I was LIVID. I ran. From one place to another. As if to find something, empty handed and knowing just what my subconscious allowed me to. I denied all that was said with every cell in my brain, every chemical in every cell in my brain, every molecule, every element of every chemical of every cell in my brain. Everything, that with a little molding and a lot of scolding, had become me, was just screaming at the person who had called Ashok's existence a worthless one. And then I heard a thump. Thummmmp. Thummmp. Thummp. THUMP. The intensity quickened, as did the frequency. I didn't have to wait for the second thump, though to know what was wrong. See, I have this dumb friend. He doesn't talk so I don't really notice him. And its all fine and dandy until I feel some semblance of doubt. But the minute I do, and he's reliable that way, the MINUTE I do, he starts to 'thump' more noticably. So there I was, my crazy little dumb friend thumping away in his cosy little corner of my chest.
"What fresh hell is this? I don't really think that Ashok, all 50 years of him being alive, I don't really believe his was a worthless existence?!"
Oh, but I did.
This was only a dream. Just an illusion. Maybe it meant something? Too early to tell. Oh, well.
Onward, ho into my subconscious.
I noticed I had stopped running. I was just drifting now. Lost in the disbelief that what exists, what is, means nothing.
My thoughts were, although just barely, interrupted by an infant crying and tugging at my feet. Dark-skinned, very run-down and hungry, by what I could tell. It annoyed me, really, that in this moment of hopelessness, a wondrous hopelessness, a disbelief even, that nothing matters, so profound a moment, this needy little bastard child was disturbing my train of thought. Begone!
I moved along the 'paths' until I found myself, having really reprimanded my friend for having said such a thing, I found myself just lying on my bed. Still dreaming, mind you.
I knew the reason for my anger. I hated him for thrusting me into the deep end of despair. I was alone. I was going to die. And it would matter not more than any of the dozens of times I had squashed all those ants, just for being tiny and vulnerable. And yet, through it all, I could still hear that damn baby just shrieking away. "Don't you see you annoying, helpless little bundle of flesh? Nobody cares!"
I smelled rain. The thunder confirmed it and what felt like 4 hours later, I found myself lost again in the shantied paths of my dreamworld. The flooding had ruined the city. Everything seemed to be floating, suspended in the water, carried by its unpredictable ebbs and flows, just swirling in the entirety of what had started out as dream, but was surely a metaphor.
As I waded through it all, I heard an unfamiliar voice. Crude, almost an evolved yelp. As I looked down I saw 'him'. Barely floating. But spouting words. What the? The baby was talking. Inaudible at first, but as I trained all my senses on him, I heard a cry for help. Addressed to me. "Khaana de do, bhook lagi hai!", he said. Surely not old enough to know how to speak, he was pleading with me. All he wanted from me was food. No love, no fulfillment, no pity. Just nourishment.
I ran with an unusual gusto towards the little blob, gathered him into my embrace and ran to look for food.
I found nothing but a small glass bottle of 'Hajmola', a sour, grainy tablet that doubles as a mouth freshener and a digestive tablet . My first instinct was "It's food".
For the last part of my dream I was just staring at this tiny child, just munching away at these tiny brown tablets like it was the first thing he had eaten and like he expected it to be the last. Hajmola is really sour and spicy. I cant eat more than 2 tablets at a time. And here was this kid just gulping down handfulls. He cared not of the taste. He didn't wish it was chicken or mutton or paneer. He didn't bother about seasoning or flavors or dryness. But none of this really surprised me.
I could see what I had been drowning out all along. I could feel the same rush he was feeling. It was my dream, after all.
And as I stared at him just munching away, I saw an expression that I recognized. I'd seen it a million times before.
I'd seen it on TV, on the streets, in school, in the temple, on the airplane, in the train, at home, in the forest, on the mountains, in the valleys, at the cinema, in the mirror, just about everywhere I had ever looked.
The kid was, irrespective of color, size, religion, species, intelligence, the kid was alive. It was all he was striving for.
He cared not for what had come or what would come. He had only one goal. Stay alive.
For there had been a billion years ( that we have learnt to measure) and probably will be a billion more, but for that one second that mattered, the present, the kid was alive.
I was drunk, drinking away the passing of one of my relatives, lets call him Ashok. My world was 3 friends and some broken down shanties. And people. Just these nameless, identity craving creatures, just walking around all over my little drunken, dream world. The first involvement of mine, as I remember, was hearing a drunk friend of mine calling Ashok's existence worthless. He was ranting about how Ashok was just a middle class guy, who, although made an excellent living for his family, was bound by the rules of the favorite Indian game, Playing it Safe. He never really explored the heights, breadths and depths, the vastness of life, really. I was LIVID. I ran. From one place to another. As if to find something, empty handed and knowing just what my subconscious allowed me to. I denied all that was said with every cell in my brain, every chemical in every cell in my brain, every molecule, every element of every chemical of every cell in my brain. Everything, that with a little molding and a lot of scolding, had become me, was just screaming at the person who had called Ashok's existence a worthless one. And then I heard a thump. Thummmmp. Thummmp. Thummp. THUMP. The intensity quickened, as did the frequency. I didn't have to wait for the second thump, though to know what was wrong. See, I have this dumb friend. He doesn't talk so I don't really notice him. And its all fine and dandy until I feel some semblance of doubt. But the minute I do, and he's reliable that way, the MINUTE I do, he starts to 'thump' more noticably. So there I was, my crazy little dumb friend thumping away in his cosy little corner of my chest.
"What fresh hell is this? I don't really think that Ashok, all 50 years of him being alive, I don't really believe his was a worthless existence?!"
Oh, but I did.
This was only a dream. Just an illusion. Maybe it meant something? Too early to tell. Oh, well.
Onward, ho into my subconscious.
I noticed I had stopped running. I was just drifting now. Lost in the disbelief that what exists, what is, means nothing.
My thoughts were, although just barely, interrupted by an infant crying and tugging at my feet. Dark-skinned, very run-down and hungry, by what I could tell. It annoyed me, really, that in this moment of hopelessness, a wondrous hopelessness, a disbelief even, that nothing matters, so profound a moment, this needy little bastard child was disturbing my train of thought. Begone!
I moved along the 'paths' until I found myself, having really reprimanded my friend for having said such a thing, I found myself just lying on my bed. Still dreaming, mind you.
I knew the reason for my anger. I hated him for thrusting me into the deep end of despair. I was alone. I was going to die. And it would matter not more than any of the dozens of times I had squashed all those ants, just for being tiny and vulnerable. And yet, through it all, I could still hear that damn baby just shrieking away. "Don't you see you annoying, helpless little bundle of flesh? Nobody cares!"
I smelled rain. The thunder confirmed it and what felt like 4 hours later, I found myself lost again in the shantied paths of my dreamworld. The flooding had ruined the city. Everything seemed to be floating, suspended in the water, carried by its unpredictable ebbs and flows, just swirling in the entirety of what had started out as dream, but was surely a metaphor.
As I waded through it all, I heard an unfamiliar voice. Crude, almost an evolved yelp. As I looked down I saw 'him'. Barely floating. But spouting words. What the? The baby was talking. Inaudible at first, but as I trained all my senses on him, I heard a cry for help. Addressed to me. "Khaana de do, bhook lagi hai!", he said. Surely not old enough to know how to speak, he was pleading with me. All he wanted from me was food. No love, no fulfillment, no pity. Just nourishment.
I ran with an unusual gusto towards the little blob, gathered him into my embrace and ran to look for food.
I found nothing but a small glass bottle of 'Hajmola', a sour, grainy tablet that doubles as a mouth freshener and a digestive tablet . My first instinct was "It's food".
For the last part of my dream I was just staring at this tiny child, just munching away at these tiny brown tablets like it was the first thing he had eaten and like he expected it to be the last. Hajmola is really sour and spicy. I cant eat more than 2 tablets at a time. And here was this kid just gulping down handfulls. He cared not of the taste. He didn't wish it was chicken or mutton or paneer. He didn't bother about seasoning or flavors or dryness. But none of this really surprised me.
I could see what I had been drowning out all along. I could feel the same rush he was feeling. It was my dream, after all.
And as I stared at him just munching away, I saw an expression that I recognized. I'd seen it a million times before.
I'd seen it on TV, on the streets, in school, in the temple, on the airplane, in the train, at home, in the forest, on the mountains, in the valleys, at the cinema, in the mirror, just about everywhere I had ever looked.
The kid was, irrespective of color, size, religion, species, intelligence, the kid was alive. It was all he was striving for.
He cared not for what had come or what would come. He had only one goal. Stay alive.
For there had been a billion years ( that we have learnt to measure) and probably will be a billion more, but for that one second that mattered, the present, the kid was alive.
