Dream
I have no clear recollection of the date of the night I dreamt this. But I am sure of two things. No, in fact, three. That I dreamt this on a nascent dawn when its greyish hue was busy painting the garb of a still and soon-to-be-forgotten night, made a diary entry of it the other day and had been blissfully asleep after finishing 'Dance, Dance, Dance' by Haruki Murakami just before it ensnared me in its shadowed realm. When I look it up in my notes, the date shows 6th June, 2014 and the time nine past twelve in the afternoon.
I am standing near the place where a river once used to flow. A mighty stream, filled with the essence of life, healing and replenishing the thriving signatures of life, both inside and outside it. The lone source of water in that region, sustaining the breath of plants, animals and the various creatures that inhabit this place. Except for a human. Humans have never been to this place. They know of the existence of this quietly drying up region, where the lands have been constantly accepting the wishes of an impending aridity, which keeps on creeping up steadily on the neglected plains. Wrong. They have been here sometimes. But have not stayed for long. Probably because they are okay reporting the catastrophe that is bound to fall upon this place but refrain from lingering onto their words of caution. Maybe they fear that this place might not be saved at all. That it is out of their hands and this place is beyond saving. Maybe this is all due to their fault. Maybe the mere sight of it reminds them of the doom they have brewed unconscionably.
And all this knowledge of the murky past, the roiling present and the unsettling future I alone seemed to know the instant I opened my eyes to the sight of this river bed. Like my brain has been force-fed this piece of information in some earlier times by people I once knew. A faint but unmistakable reminder. I was one of them. But this sudden awareness is lost on me. I sit down near the river's edge with my hands registering the heat of the incensed skin of the earth with a submissive candour, thinking about dipping my feet inside the invisible coolness of water that my benumbed legs will be unable to sense or feel. I watch this river snaking its way along the arid and desolate deserted sands, its course freshly dried up and the surface of the bed broken up into curious blocks as if someone has tried to deliberately carve them into the black and green mud. The broken up mud blocks are sometimes in the form of a quadrilateral, sometimes hexagonal or triangular and one or two of them resemble a near perfect pentagon. The caked up but still moist mud which is quietly drying up particle by particle every ensuing moment, resigned to transform into the vagrant sand, still holds up a promise though. A young promise. Fragrant with the resolve that I did not anticipate. Small green saplings have poked their defiant heads out of the crevices scribbled deep here and there in the moist places. Reminiscent of life that has not long been eroded away into the elements that remain free forever. Unshackled since the Beginning. I do not have to think. I don't have to put my mind to decipher the truth. I know of it before it ever happens. Like I knew about the strands that knit together as this dream. They will sway joyfully for some time, those light green saplings. Flourish with nice thin tendrils bearing seeds, maybe. But will bear the brunt of my deeds. Will let out silent agonising cries, which I can never hear, and shrivel up. A fight against the inevitable. With the promise of life and purity of a well-meant rain. With the pining of life and purity of a well-meant rain. I need not keep on dreaming on. I know everything.
I am standing near the place where a river once used to flow. A mighty stream, filled with the essence of life, healing and replenishing the thriving signatures of life, both inside and outside it. The lone source of water in that region, sustaining the breath of plants, animals and the various creatures that inhabit this place. Except for a human. Humans have never been to this place. They know of the existence of this quietly drying up region, where the lands have been constantly accepting the wishes of an impending aridity, which keeps on creeping up steadily on the neglected plains. Wrong. They have been here sometimes. But have not stayed for long. Probably because they are okay reporting the catastrophe that is bound to fall upon this place but refrain from lingering onto their words of caution. Maybe they fear that this place might not be saved at all. That it is out of their hands and this place is beyond saving. Maybe this is all due to their fault. Maybe the mere sight of it reminds them of the doom they have brewed unconscionably.
And all this knowledge of the murky past, the roiling present and the unsettling future I alone seemed to know the instant I opened my eyes to the sight of this river bed. Like my brain has been force-fed this piece of information in some earlier times by people I once knew. A faint but unmistakable reminder. I was one of them. But this sudden awareness is lost on me. I sit down near the river's edge with my hands registering the heat of the incensed skin of the earth with a submissive candour, thinking about dipping my feet inside the invisible coolness of water that my benumbed legs will be unable to sense or feel. I watch this river snaking its way along the arid and desolate deserted sands, its course freshly dried up and the surface of the bed broken up into curious blocks as if someone has tried to deliberately carve them into the black and green mud. The broken up mud blocks are sometimes in the form of a quadrilateral, sometimes hexagonal or triangular and one or two of them resemble a near perfect pentagon. The caked up but still moist mud which is quietly drying up particle by particle every ensuing moment, resigned to transform into the vagrant sand, still holds up a promise though. A young promise. Fragrant with the resolve that I did not anticipate. Small green saplings have poked their defiant heads out of the crevices scribbled deep here and there in the moist places. Reminiscent of life that has not long been eroded away into the elements that remain free forever. Unshackled since the Beginning. I do not have to think. I don't have to put my mind to decipher the truth. I know of it before it ever happens. Like I knew about the strands that knit together as this dream. They will sway joyfully for some time, those light green saplings. Flourish with nice thin tendrils bearing seeds, maybe. But will bear the brunt of my deeds. Will let out silent agonising cries, which I can never hear, and shrivel up. A fight against the inevitable. With the promise of life and purity of a well-meant rain. With the pining of life and purity of a well-meant rain. I need not keep on dreaming on. I know everything.
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