Last night I had it again. Another confused dream. Another torment, another hell. What are dreams meant for? Sigmund Freud said: dreams are the vision of our subconscious mind when it does things that we normally don’t do. Paulo Coelho say: dreams are our connection with the soul of the world, they are the windows to our laid paths. I am confused. Who make dreams? We, ourselves, through our subconscious brain, or the soul of the world?
“Whoever be it, dreams are important, no doubt.”
Yes, dreams do have a connection with the real life, else how would they have made me so uneasy, so restless, that I couldn’t sleep whole night, withering into my bed – waking up every other moment – going by the window and staring out to void – intermittently smoking a cigarette – trying to puff out the helluva gloom – picking up the cell phone and going through all the messages again and again – sauntering across my room – going to the balcony and grope for something in the eternal dark – why the hell would I not have slept peacefully, had it not been to dreams.
“What did you see?”
“I had gone there for something, I don’t remember now, you tend to lose on links…see…it shows that dreams are unreal…yet so close to life,” I stared at her, protecting my apprehension behind a crafted smile. She didn’t seem to bother. “Someone was escorting us through the campus, and that was a nice feeling, as if I always wanted to go there, and suddenly it was dinner time. But, I don’t know why it was dark there…and we went towards the mess. That was full. We had to wait. Then suddenly we were sitting in the ground before a bunch of students. They were doing something…probably playing some kind of word game. These kinds of games were very popular in my own college. Then suddenly a girl appeared form no where. She had donned a sweater, which had horizontally drawn alternate red and yellow lines…wasn’t it a peculiar color combination?…she had shoulder length slight curly hairs, pulled back and tightened with hair pins, rest of them fell down…and she had a pile of papers with her…she sat in the middle of the play and no one objected…and…suddenly someone from behind us called her by the name ‘Shanti’…she gazed in the direction, past me, at the professor.
“He asked her something about her presentation due tomorrow…perhaps the topic she was going to talk upon. She replied: ‘Whether Indian Petroleum Industry should use advertisements to woo Iran and Pakistan?’…now that topic was interesting…amusing…and suddenly I saw a billboard, right to me, somewhere hanging in the sky that said ‘Mudra Institute of Communication’. I smiled and looked for my colleagues, they had gone…and suddenly Debashish appeared from no where, like a ghost and said that he was going to wait for me in the mess…and he went away.”
“It is like a bollywood movie with few reels missing, but perfectly adventurous, and amusing.” She quipped. She thought I was thinking up all these nuances, trying to buy her time. But I was not. I knew all this was true. But, she wouldn’t believe. She had developed a sense of prejudice that impelled her to think that whatever I was doing was all for her, about her.
Or this sense of prejudice was mine? I didn’t know. Then, there, all I knew was that my dream was a truth; and she thought that I was kidding. Doesn’t life suck this way? Doesn’t it make you too irate to concentrate upon anything particular?
I would not tell her what happened next. I would laugh and wave the stuff away as though it never happened to me.
But the dream hadn’t ended then and there, something happened…and I went to Shanti.
“Excuse me,” I said. She stopped.
I extended my hands to her, and introduced myself, “Animesh”
“Shanti” she shook my palms and replied tersely.
“well…ummm…I am from Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad, you might have heard of it,” she didn’t seem to pass any clue, I proceeded further, “I did my engineering from there majoring in Petroleum.” That was a lie, I majored in Electronics; I don’t know why I said that, “if you need any information, or insight for your presentation, I might be of help.”
Now that was real foolish. I don’t remember what she replied, but I remember a phone call.
It wasn’t Shanti though. It was from an ad agency. They wanted me to make something new for their new account, ONGC, an Indian petroleum giant. Something similar to what SBI did recently.
“You do everything in your dreams.” She remarked later in the evening.