The Dilemma

2^nd Feb, 2010

As dusk slowly sets in and the color of the sky turns crimson, three things happen all at once. The cat on the neighbor’s fence jumps down in pursuit of another cat (probably female), the sound of a car screeching to a halt on the main road is heard, and I pick up my pen to commence a story, the idea for which has been floating around in my mind for sometime now. It goes like this.

The Dream

Nothing could be discerned in the dazzling bright light all around. The only audible sounds were screams everywhere. She was frantically searching for someone amidst this chaos but was not able to find him

The dream broke. Pooja awoke with a start.

It had been ages since she had had this dream. She remembered witnessing the same chronology of events in her dreams as a child. It was always this same dream and she dreamt it quite often. Gradually as she had moved on to her teens, the dreams had become less frequent and had stopped altogether. Until today! What was so special about today? She tried to focus her thoughts and reconstruct the happenings of the day.

The Conference

Since morning, she had been preparing herself for the first big assignment of her career as a journalist. She was going to cover the inaugural public address of the emerging writer Ashwin Ranade who had come to be in the limelight due to his views against religious fundamentalism, expressed in his debut novel. Although a new writer, he was already being hailed as the next Salman Rushdie on account of a similar genre of writing – a combination of fantasy and history.

It was a big achievement for Pooja to be given the opportunity of being a correspondent for her newspaper, for this event

In his address, the author explained why the subject of religious fundamentalism troubled him. He stated that fundamentalism begets fanatism. He went on to say that he believed people proclaiming themselves to be guardians of their religion and advocating violence on such pretexts were inadvertently disgracing the image of their religion and turning out to be its greatest enemies. He also talked about the motivation behind his debut novel. In this he mentioned the 2002 communal riots in Gujrat, which serve as the backdrop for his novel. What drove him to write about it was the irony of a democratic state government aiding the organized massacre of a religious minority. He also mentioned that he had been immensely influenced by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Salman Rushdie, and that this book was a tribute to them and their genre of writing.

As soon as the author finished his address, Pooja along with the other reporters created a hurdle around him, each of them vying for an extra tidbit from the author. He was being volleyed by questions from all around. The situation turned quite chaotic, with everyone trying to push their way forward and Ashwin started to look irritated. Pooja had been stuck midway when the man in front of her lost his balance and she was suddenly pushed to the front and would have fallen if not steadied by Ashwin. She mumbled an apology and looked up.

There are times when a moment seems like ages. It was such a moment, when Pooja’s eyes met with Ashwin’s. She received an inexplicable look from the author. It was not anger, rather a look of surprise. She had an epiphany and in spite of the advantageous position gained, forgot about asking any question. Ashwin’s condition was worse. His deep brown eyes betrayed the fact that he was in some way flabbergasted. The moment passed and Ashwin was whisked away to his car by his security men.

As she sat on her bed, recollecting this incident, she nearly blushed. But she couldn’t explain why!

The Admirer

Pooja realized that sleep would evade her for the rest of the night. As she switched on the light, her attention went to her mobile phone. It displayed two unread messages. They were from Polash, her colleague, wishing her good luck for the assignment. In the flurry of the day’s events, she had not had the time to check the messages. Polash, though out of station on an assignment for the daily, was ever encouraging about any of her endeavors, she regarded with a smile.

In the 4 years that she had known Polash, her demeanor towards him had changed from absolute disregard to mild tolerance to a reliable friendship. To an outside observer it may seem that this feeling was gradually ripening into that magical bond which has powers beyond imagination, which can mitigate pains, inspire humaneness and transform lives, that which cannot be expressed in words and yet which we encapsulate in a certain minuscule term called love.

But she was not ready to envision it on those lines; not yet.

Flashbacks

Yet there was something special about tonight. The recurrence of a forgotten dream had evoked something in her. She suddenly had the irresistible urge to ponder over the bygone days, view her life in retrospect.

She was born to a middle class family in Delhi. As the elder of two sisters she was always the more level headed and responsible one. She had a fascination for journalism and had decided upon pursuing it as her career, in which she had the whole-hearted support of her family. And here she was, working with a reputed daily since the last 4 years. The job had also earned her some very good friends – Smriti, Sanjay. And Polash!

This is rubbish. I am deviating from the crux of the story. If I go on like this, I will end up writing the entire family history of Pooja. It will be prudent to leave her to her musings and get some sleep myself. Enough for today!

8^th Feb, 2010

I am stuck. I need to emulate a situation about which I have very little idea, yet it is crucial to the story. Perhaps this is what writers refer to as a creative block. It has been almost a week since I wrote a single word in this story. If I am to complete this, I need to make progress somehow. As Jack London says, “You can't wait for inspiration; you have to go after it with a club”. So be it.

It is already evident that we can expect some future interaction between Ashwin and Pooja, but the problem is how does it come about? Let us assume that they meet at a party(I am not sure that any journalist, except those in charge of Page3 are invited to celebrity parties). Or let us say that Ashwin obtains Pooja’s contact details, which is not very difficult for an eminent writer, and invites her to meet him privately at some unassuming café?(Would Pooja agree to such a clandestine meeting?)

Whatever be the case, the fact of the matter is that they meet … somewhere, somehow.

Now, I am impatient to continue with the story

An Event Out of The Ordinary

For quite some time Ashwin was trying to say something but was unsure how to commence. He hadn’t gotten much beyond, “Thank you for coming”. Pooja looked at the confident yet hesitant face of Ashwin and wondered what he had in mind. But what he finally said, baffled her.

A: I have finally found you

P: Sorry! I don’t understand

A: Oh is it like that? That day I thought…well, lets just say I have been waiting for you since a long time

P: I am glad to hear that but I still do not understand

A: Ok, I will put this across simply; I have been in love with you from before the time you even remember. I know this does not make sense. But, let us keep that aside.

My plain question is, will you marry me?

P: My God! I cannot make a head or tail out of this, I hardly know you!

A: You know me very well, it is just that you can’t remember. Suppose if indeed we had met on the day of the conference and I had made this proposal today, how would you have reacted to it? After all I am not that obscure a person, I believe.

P: I would have said that you were in a hurry. Hmmm…however I would have given it a thought. I would have asked for some time

A: Fine, let’s leave it on that note for now. When you have made up your mind, you know how to reach me

And thanks for hearing me out.

With that, this memorable conversation which marks an important turning point in Pooja’s life, comes to an end.

Engima

Ashwin’s demeanor surprised Pooja. Her own reflections puzzled her even more. Now that she thought about it, she realized that she had had a strange feeling, a sort of déjà-vu when her eyes had met Ashwin’s, on the day of the conference. Amidst her perplexity she could discern a guilty-sweet amusement when she thought about the whole incident. Added to this was the constant recurrence of that childhood dream. It struck her that the two were related somehow. However she could not make any sense out of it. She had an impulse to call Polash,, still out of station, and tell him what she was going through, but restrained herself thinking about the impact this news would have on him. She finally confided in Smriti..

Smriti was an absolute opposite to Pooja. Her romanticism sharply contrasted Pooja’s pragmatism. By the time Pooja finished narrating her situation, Smriti was bursting with excitement. She said enthusiastically, “This has to be related to your past life”. “What?”, Pooja was surprised, “I don’t believe in such things.” Smriti gave her a dejected look. Pooja tried to reconcile, “Ok, for the sake of argument if I agree that this is somehow connected to my past life, I have no way to prove it”. Smriti’s enthusiasm was back. She smiled, “There is indeed a way to find out what actually occurred in your past life. But you have to cooperate with me and do as I say”. Pooja shrugged, “Well, I guess it would do no harm to try out”. Thus one fine Sunday morning, Pooja accompanied Smriti as they journeyed to the suburbs of old Delhi to visit a Past Life Regression practitioner.

9^th Feb, 2010

A question which naturally arises at this point is why am I trying to add a mystic element to an otherwise realistic story? I will say this in defense, someone as great as Satyajit Ray had added a similar element in an otherwise detective novel, ‘Sonar Kella’; legendary writer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his book, ’The Land of Mist’ had compelled his champion of science, Professor Challenger, to become a staunch believer in spiritualism and after life. I am in no possible way comparing myself to these stalwarts but they certainly serve as inspirations. With that settled, let us take a peek inside the PLR(Past Life Regression) practitioner’s chamber.

Images from the Past

“Relax; take a deep breath”, rang the sweet voice of the practitioner. Pooja lay on the cushion with her eyes shut while Smriti had placed herself at the corner of the room. She carried on, “Imagine the globe, rotating slowly. Focus on each country one by one and tell me if you feel any affinity for a particular place”. Pooja tried this quite a few times but could not focus on any more detail than the continent of Asia as a whole. The practitioner next instructed,” Imagine a staircase with ten steps. Pooja did not find this difficult to visualize. She continued, “Visualize yourself walking down the stairs, one by one, as I count backwards. With each step you will go one level deeper into your subconscious”“10, 9, 8…”, she counted on and Pooja took one step at a time. By the time she reached 1, Pooja was in a hypnotic trance. The lady continued, “At the bottom of the stairs you will find a door. Open it and go out into the yard”. Pooja did likewise. When she finally stepped out into the yard she was amazed to recollect forgotten images of her as a child. “Now imagine a mist. Take gentle steps towards it. Enter the mist. When you cross it, you will be in your past life”, she continued. Pooja could visualize the mist now. With bated breath, she took small steps towards it. Entering the mist she had a strange sensation and her perception was blurred. Her vision cleared again as she stepped into the light, out of the mist. The practitioner asked, “How do you see yourself? Describe it”.

It was a moment of wonder. It was as if Pooja was looking at herself yet knowing that it was not exactly herself. She found herself as a woman of medium build, short in height, wearing a peculiar white dress. Through their successive conversations the practitioner identified the dress as a ‘Kimono’.

She labored with Pooja to get glimpses of significant events by ordering the subconscious mind to traverse through this life. It came in fragments. Through meticulous questioning, the practitioner was finally able to piece together the story of Pooja’s past life.

But it is the duty bestowed upon me, the narrator, to present this story in a concrete form. Before going into that let me explain how one can be regressed to past life through hypnosis. The basic idea is that all human beings have a primitive mind (which is a small part of the subconscious mind) that contains the memories of their past lives. As infants they can recall these memories, but as they grow up they tend to forget them. Henceforth, they can only be recalled by means of hypnosis. (There are exceptions to this, as often highlighted by the media). What I present below is a proper ordering of the facts behind the images that Pooja has encountered during the session, the ones relevant to our story.

Days of Terror

The World War II was coming to a conclusion with U.S.A slowly gaining its front. The great empire of Japan was receding. However that did not dampen the spirit of the Japanese military, they were still hoping against hope for a turnaround. This was the time when the condition of the common people of Japan, especially the women became worse. Since the beginning of World War II, the Japanese military think tanks had devised an ingenious way to keep their soldiers motivated, namely establishment of ‘comfort stations’. The comfort stations were but the official nomenclature for military brothels, which were for exclusive use by military personnel. In the beginning, the ‘comfort women’ were only those who were willing to enter such a lifestyle in exchange for money. As days progressed, this category became lesser in number. It resulted in hiring women on the pretext of respectable jobs in the military and later dumping them into the comfort stations. But the worst was still to come. During the time of our story, the heinosity of the military aggravated to unprecedented levels. Women were kidnapped from streets, houses and every other possible location and forced to serve as comfort women. It was an ultimate effort of the struggling Japanese empire to buy the willingness of its soldiers.

It was amidst this perennial environment of terror, that Akemi (Pooja’s identity in her past life) on a fateful evening closed her flower shop for the day and started back towards her quarters. She along with her mother, lived in the central part of the city of Izumo. The business was bad during the war and she was having great difficulties in providing for herself and her invalid mother. She was occupied with these thoughts, when she came face to face with Junichi, a dealer of sorts. Lately he had been associated with trading women for the comfort stations in the South Western part of Japan. Junichi had his eyes on Akemi for long and had offered her a lucrative post in military several times. But Akemi was not to be fooled, she always steered clear of his advances and in spite of her poverty, no sum of money could make her falter. Today she was a bit startled to encounter him in this way. She tried to ignore him and step aside. Just then she felt an overpowering odor filling her nostrils. She went unconscious.

When she regained consciousness, she found herself lying on a bed in a shabby room, devoid of any other furniture. After getting over her initial shock, she tried to reason. She concluded that Junichi must have abducted her for bringing her to a comfort station, perhaps she was already in one. Her train of thoughts was interrupted by a sound of footsteps approaching the door. This drove her to desperation. As she frantically looked around the room for something to defend herself, her eyes fell on an empty brass candle stand. She immediately picked it up and positioned herself beside the door. As soon as the door opened and the face of a high ranking official peeped in, she struck with all her might. The officer lay in a pool of blood. She had no time to lose. She ran through the corridor and down the stairs. The alarm had already been sounded. When she reached the courtyard, two strong hands suddenly shot out from nowhere, gripped her and drew her to a desolate corner. She was in the arms of a soldier, a captain going by his badge. She was still struggling when the captain whispered,” Don’t be afraid, I am trying to help you”. This was not very assuring altogether and Akemi continued to struggle. The soldier continued, “Don’t you recognize me? I am Kazuki., remember? I was quite a regular in your shop before I was transferred here”. At this Akemi stopped struggling and looked at him properly for the first time. She could recognize him. She indeed remembered seeing him in her shop quite often. They had even chatted on casual topics many a times. Kazuki continued, “How did you get here? Were you kidnapped?” She nodded. Kazuki swore aloud. She asked him, “What is this place?” Kazuki replied, “You are in a comfort station, in the central part of Hiroshima. It’s pure luck that I was in the neighborhood and could come in just after the alarms rang, otherwise you were doomed. But don’t worry now, I will get you out of here”. Somehow Akemi was tempted to put her trust in those deep brown eyes of Kazuki. He led her through narrow bylanes and they emerged into the main street. He said to her, “Wait here, I’ll get my jeep” She mumbled a , “Thank You”. He gave a knowing smile and disappeared among the crowd.

Far above, a US B-29 bomber craft was soaring in the sky, ‘Enola Gay’ it was called. Suddenly sirens started to wail. The citizens spotted the aircraft above Hiroshima. It appeared to be going towards Tokyo. They spared no thought on it; it was after all quite a usual occurrence in times of war. A few minutes later it reappeared over Hiroshima.

The captain of ‘Enola Gay’ gave an order and the aircraft climbed up to a higher altitude. At the same instant a hand that humanity would never forgive released the greatest triumph of U.S technology, the uranium fission bomb ‘Little Boy’ on to the surface of Hiroshima.

Akemi was wondering how long Kazuki would take when she heard a huge impact far away. She was lifted off the ground and dashed against a metal structure. Within seconds everything was lit up with a blinding white light. Added to that was an unbearable heat. The intensity could only be described as a thousand suns shining together. Then a thick layer of smoke engulfed everyone. There were screams and yells all around. Lying on the ground severely injured, Akemi could see a giant mushroom cloud rising up into the air. She called out for Kazuki, but there was no response. Her wounds were great and she was profusely bleeding. She sensed death coming. Trying to wrestle with death for several minutes, she finally gave in. Her last thoughts were for Kazuki. She was eventually reduced to a charred dead body, like several thousands strewn on the streets, unattended by anyone.

The Enigma Unfolds

The practitioner told Pooja to recall the face of Kazuki and concentrate on it. She told her, “Faces change in different births, but the eyes remain always the same”. Pooja with a little effort could easily identify the deep brown eyes as those of Ashwin’s. Her childhood dream now made sense perfectly. When the practitioner had finally brought her out of the trance, her eyes were moist. She was lost in her musings all day long.

Thus we come to a crucial juncture of this story wherein Pooja is faced with a dilemma. Even more than the character, it is the dilemma of the narrator about the direction he would eventually choose. Tagore in his novel ‘Gora’ had nipped it in the bud by making Binoy fall for Lalita halfway through the novel , in spite of his initial infatuations with Sucharita, thereby paving the way for a future liason between Gora and Sucharita. Dickens in his ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ had made a martyr out of Carton, so that he could restore Lucie and Darnay and eliminate the third person from their lives, forever. Hardy in his ‘Far From The Madding Crowd’ had shrewdly removed Troy and Boldwood from the game, so as to unite Bathsheba with her ardent lover, Gabriel. How am I going to deal with this? I need to think.

12th Feb,2010

I have pondered long over this matter. I am now ready to resume the story once again.

A Conversation

Polash had finally returned, a few days after Pooja went through the PLR experience. She met him in the same bus stoppage, which had been a venue of their conversations every evening, on their way home. For the past one year both of them had looked forward to this tete-a-tete . Their talks often became so engrossing that they intentionally missed a bus or two. While waiting for Polash today, Pooja recalled these moments as well as those of a few weekend meetups they had had. She felt that their relation had indeed been slowly yet steadily taking a shape. They had grown to understand each other so well. But it would all change now.

Polash’s countenance did not betray any emotion when Pooja recounted her experiences starting from the conference up till the PLR session, and communicated her decision to him; but if one could look at his sensitive eyes, one could easily gauge the turmoil of emotions that he was going through. He thought of the wonderful times they had spent together, moments when he had felt his heart blooming like a flower, felt the true bliss of life which he wanted to hold on to, forever. Alas, it was coming to an end. He wondered whether he would be able to spend the rest of his life recollecting these magical moments, when for once the whole world had seemed beautiful.

His voice quivered a little when he said to Pooja, “I am happy for you”. She looked at him and comprehended the sadness in his eyes. She tried to smile, but could not, instead ended up with an understanding nod. When her bus arrived and she waved a goodbye to Polash, he felt that this was not just a goodbye but an adieu to the life he had dreamed of, the love he had deserved. It was as if he was biding farewell to the love of his life for the final time. It was true that they would be seeing each other again, but somehow everything would be different henceforth. He stood there long after she departed, shedding silent tears for a dream that would no longer be his.

14^th Feb,2010

I am stuck once again, but this time I cannot explain why. This is certainly not a creative block, since I have the ending completely sorted out in my mind. But whenever I am trying to put it to paper, it is turning out to be gibberish!

I have torn off so many sheets in frustration. It seems at times as if I am being possessed, as if some unknown force is hindering me from completing the story. I have carried this story to such a point where it would be an injustice not to finish it. I must complete it somehow…

Pooja is looking for someone. Her gaze shifts from one person to another on the busy road in a desperate effort to locate that someone. She finally spots her man, leaning against a lamppost on her opposite foot.

The man as if expecting her is looking at her with an expression of curiosity. His countenance reveals the fact that something is troubling him, something related to Pooja.

Let us play tricks no longer, let me re-introduce myself, the narrator of this story. Pooja crosses the road and approaches me. When I look at her pretty face, I sense the agony that lies underneath it. She speaks animatedly, “Why are you doing this to us?”

I give her a quizzical look. She continues, “You are trying to force your decisions on me. Albeit your reflections about the narrator’s dilemma, you have always been in favor of Ashwin. From the beginning you are trying to make a point as if everything that happened, was for accomplishing a union between myself and Ashwin . Honestly, I don’t remember if I had ever blushed recalling the incident in the conference, neither could I discern any guilty-sweet amusement when I thought of the whole matter. That day when I met Polash, I had not come to any decision at all. But you presented it as if I had already given my consent to marry Ashwin. This is not fair”. I try to mumble something but she stops me midway and remarks, “By the way, you will be glad to know that I have indeed come to a decision now”. Relieved on hearing this, I say, “Well then, a good news for Ashwin perhaps”. “On the contrary, I have realized that I am in love with Polash”, she utters. It is now my turn to get animated, “But what about Ashwin? You have a mystic connection with him, one that has been running from your previous birth, moreover he is a celebrity”. She stops me again and says, “I agree Ashwin is a very desirable person and going by that PLR I would indeed have married him in my past life, if ‘Little Boy’ hadn’t ruined it all. But I will tell you one thing honestly, whatever images I recounted during that session, did emote me at that time, but later when I though about all that, it seemed a distant thing, like some movie that I had watched and liked, but somehow not real. That was a different life. This is a different one, the one in which I have met Polash. For Ashwin’s sake, I cannot desert a person who has stood by me all these years, unassumingly yet sincerely”. I interrupt here, “So your conscience is troubling you, you are feeling that it would be unfair to leave Polash”. Pooja says, “Its not that. Why are you trying to churn out a reason out of everything? It doesn’t work that way. A wise man had once said, 'When you can define why you like someone, that’s strong liking; when you cannot, that’s love'. I confess that I have not been very clear about my feelings for Polash earlier, but now I know how much he means to me. He somehow makes me feel my life would be incomplete without him. And I cannot really explain why I feel that way. Get my point?” With this she turns to leave. Suddenly I have a brainwave, I grow enlightened and everything starts to make sense. It was one of my own aphorisms, coined long back, that she has thrown back at me. Indeed, I have been an imbecile all along, trying to negate my own notions, go against my own beliefs.

As the old church clock starts chiming, three things happen all at once. A cat comes running along the pavement and catches up with another cat(probably female) that was striding along the pavement at a leisurely pace. The car parked in front, springs to life and starts its engine with a rumble, and Pooja looks at her watch and shakes her head in anguish. She is already late. Polash would be waiting.

The Dreamscape

The Dream-Dweller

I

I am in a strange land. The night is dark . Miles of desert spreading out to the horizon with ruins of a city visible far away. I feel thirsty. As I step forward, I find a giant well looming in the darkness. As I keep lowering the bucket I find that it can never reach the water, even with the rope fully uncoiled. Exhausted as I finally lay down on the cool sand, I am haunted by your memories from an entirely different world which we call reality.

I am reminded of the first time we met and the impact you had on me. You seemed to be everything I had ever desired for. Why didn’t you feel the same? Why is this world so unfair? Sometimes I feel that you would do better to hit me or insult me rather than regard me with this cold gaze, making me feel as if I am unworthy of you. These thoughts come back to me and I grow thirstier.

As I close my eyes, I become aware of a presence -- your presence. When I open them, I am unable to spot you. But somehow it feels that you are somewhere very close to me. I only have to find you. As I make a resolve to set out on this task, I find myself back in this gruesome world of reality. I really long to go back.

II

As the sands sparkle in the unearthly moonlight, your unseen hands draw me towards my destiny. The occasional sense of your presence has kept me moving through this arid desert night after night(why is it always night here?) and the destination has always seemed further away.

Today I have reached the edge of the city. It had looked deserted from a distance, but this notion is dispelled soon enough. I spot a tall shabby looking man coming to greet me. He looks very surprised and tells me that they have been waiting for me since a long time. When I tell him about you, a cloud passes over his face. He tells me that I await a great destiny. But the very next moment I am sadly called back to my waking state, this harsh world of reality.

The Roommate

I know him for about 3 years now. I have been sharing my room with him (how pathetic!) for that long. Frankly speaking I did not care much about him and I believe neither of our flat mates did. Nobody could really stand the supposedly intellectual aura he seemed to carry about himself(all rubbish). These are times when one needs to take things casually, think less and act fast. People like him who attach so much importance to thinking and trying to grasp depth and meaning in everything, should ideally go and live in another decade(why bother us?)

I never had any interest in knowing whether he was in a relationship. Seeing the likes of him I would bet he wasn’t. It seemed at times that he was devoted to some woman (in the old fashioned way!), but I am certain he did not get much success in that direction. What else can you expect? Women these days don’t give a dime to intellectual humbugs like him(especially when there are eligible candidates like me around). I really pity him.

The Dream-Dweller …contd.

I

I am back in the ruined city. As I take strides through the city and meet its few inhabitants, I come across an old man who tells me the history of the place.

This city was conceptualized long back by some individuals who had strength in their dreams. They were the first people who found this desert. They build this place in the hope that this would serve as an abode for fellow dreamers, who sought a little relief from their burden of reality. They named it “Oasis”. These forefathers would reach out to them in their dreams and guide them to this place, where they could cultivate their dreams. These dream-dwellers had constructed their dream-realities in this city out of nothingness. The city had grown and flourished over the years as the dream-dwellers grew in numbers. After being convinced that their efforts have bourn fruit, the forefathers had decided to move on. They handed over their charges to some older residents of the city and set out on a journey beyond the city. They have never been heard of again. It seems they have slowly faded into oblivion.

The old man says that he was one of the young inhabitants who had been handed over the duty to guide new dreamers into the oasis. They had fulfilled their duty to the word for many years. But slowly and steadily tentacles of reality had crept in and they had begun losing faith in their dreams. Some had found out that reality could not be kept at bay and that the dream-realities have become meaningless to them. Some others had given up their dreams for certain material aspects of life. Eventually most of them had disappeared and had been unable or unwilling to come back to this place. Their dreams have crumpled over time. The Oasis has become an “Oasis of Shattered Dreams”. He is one of the few people who had not been able to give up on their dreams and continue dwelling here. But for many years they have not found any new dream-dweller. It seemed that the whole world was running a race with itself and no one had time for thoughts, emotions, and dreams. They had almost given up hope.

He tells me that they were all very surprised to find me. It has been ages since someone had found their way to this city. It is even more surprising that I have been able to come here on my own, unguided by any of the dream-dwellers.

I have given them new hope. They have been overjoyed to know that there are still people who dare to think differently, dare to dream.

As they all gather around me, I feel a kind of fraternity with these people. For the first time in my life, I open my heart to them.

I tell them how you had given meaning to my life. How you had become the sole reason for my existence. This makes me delve into unhappy memories.

I had believed that you would be a perfect receptacle of my thoughts and aspirations, my devotion. You alone had the kind of sensitivity and depth to understand me. Have you ever noticed how similar we are? But alas! My lamentations have fallen to deaf ears. If only you would have considered me for once, given me an opportunity to shower you with my love, my caress, maybe you would not have found me disagreeable after all. It is even possible that you would have discovered that behind this shell of obscurity there exists a heart that beats only for you, a mind that holds you in the highest regard and a soul that loves you unconditionally. But you will never know this, since you have never ever tried to know.

Have you ever judged a book by its cover; decided that it was not to your taste even before reading a single line? Then why did you decide my fate, cast me into this doom even before trying to know me? Your ignorance torments me; makes me denounce the waking-reality. How wonderful it would have been if we could choose our own reality. These thoughts sadden my heart in my waking state. I feel as if I belong more to the desert land of my dream-reality where you seem to be the very personification of my expectations, rather than this cruel waking-reality where these expectations would never be fulfilled.

II

I spend long hours in The Oasis of Shattered dreams. I do not know any longer which one is my dream and which one my reality. Is the waking state really a bad dream and the Oasis the true reality? My fellow dreamers tell me that dreams are a manifestation of the subconscious. But reality is also a manifestation of the conscious mind. Do we really have the capability of discerning the conscious from the subconscious? Hadn’t an ancient school of philosophers believed that the world as we see it is an illusion. Then how can we say that this dream land is not a reality. The old man admires my reasoning and tells me that I have the true spirit of a dreamer, just like the forefathers who founded this city. He tells me I should follow in their footsteps and voyage beyond the oasis. I have known this in my mind for long. I say farewell to all my fellow dream-dwellers and set out in pursuit of my greatest dream – You.

The Roommate…contd.

For some days now, I find him asleep most of the time. I spot a lot of sleeping pills

in his drawer(I often ransack his drawer in the hope that I find something interesting which gives us an inkling of what is going on in his mind, it can be quite a good means of entertainment for us). It seems that he deliberately wants to remain asleep. Even when I find him awake, he would be very drowsy. There is a strange sort of look in his eyes that makes me doubt his sanity at times. It looks as if he has finally become aware of his antiqueness and is unable to come to terms with it and hence is taking means of sleep to escape the confrontation with reality. Well, who really cares? We all have our own lives and own challenges.

The Dream-Dweller…contd.

I

I drag my feet through the sand. Sometimes I grow weary, but a glimpse of you, or the sound of your voice far away, gives me new strength.

I sense a storm coming. Soon a strong gust of wind invades the landscape. The atmosphere grows very cold. Sand is hurled into my eyes. My eyes hurt and tears roll down my cheek. I am enveloped by a huge curtain of sand reaching up to the sky. My sense of direction is baffled. Suddenly I sense the warm touch of a hand– your hand. Your warmth flows through my entire body. You grip me strongly with your soft hands and guide me forward. I resign myself to you. Slowly the storm settles down and I sense your hand relinquishing its grip. The stars come out and the terrain is bathed in light. I see you in the distance more beautiful and radiant than ever. You beckon me to follow. I oblige without a second thought. But my progress is hindered as I come across a huge abyss. There is no way forward. I look around but cannot find you. As I look down in to the abyss I see a nothing but a void. An irrational fear grips me. It is then that I spot a brilliant white light originating from the bottom of the abyss. As I look downwards again, I see your smiling face and my fear is replaced with an unspeakable joy. Your eyes speak a universal language that does not require any word. I understand the choice I need to make. Either I turn back from here and give up on this reality, or I step forward into this abyss and embrace this reality forever. As if to give me more time to decide I am thrust back to this world of bad dreams, which is no longer a reality for me.

II

I have pondered over this for a long time. The inability to choose one’s own reality has always frustrated me. This is my chance to embrace the reality which I desire. Realization dawns upon me and I understand that the forefathers of The Oasis had made this choice long before. This was the end of their pursuit, their quest.

I have made up my mind. I will step forward into the abyss and finally, I will be united with you, forever.

The Roommate…contd.

What a mess! We found him dead today morning. The doctor attributed his death to an overdose of sleep inducing drugs. He never did any special favor to me when he was alive. But his death may bring me real publicity. Soon there will be a lot of media people and newspaper reporters swarming in our little apartment and who would be the centre of major attraction, the receiver of a volley of questions from all around? No one but the deceased’s roommate. I can make up stories about how I found out about his personal problems and always stood by him, consoled him and provided him moral support, but was unable to prevent the inevitable. For some months now, I will be quite sought after. It feels good in a way.

But no matter how much I am elated, there is one thing about this corpse that really intrigues me. Even in death, his face has retained a strange smile, an expression of tranquility, as if he has come out victorious in a fierce and enduring struggle. I cannot comprehend its meaning. I have heard about rigor mortis and the effects of stiffening of body muscles after death, but somehow my intuition tells me that this is a different case altogether. I feel that I would not be able to generate any concocted story about this aspect, and hence will prefer to avoid any discussion on this. The serene countenance on his lifeless form unsettles me somehow and I realize that I am afraid to think about it. Although an object of derision for us, I cannot deny that he was a strange fellow indeed. It is best to accept the fact that there are many mysteries in this world which are unfathomable to a rational mind.

Riddhiman Basu

Note: This story has now been printed in Volume 1 of 'Kolikata Letterpress' Journal and in Literally Literary page in Medium.

https://medium.com/literally-literary/the-dreamscape-b93c776ca81d