I woke up with the smell of burnt tobacco. A cloud of thick smoke was hanging low in my one roomed apartment, as I lay dazed on the couch. The news was buzzing on the radio. As my vision cleared, I could discern a figure slouched on the mat in front of me. Smoking. Half-smiling. Behind a silhouette of burning stationery, mainly sheets of paper.
The next few nanoseconds choked me with so many questions, that I was unable to ask any of the Who—What—Why-s. I was trying very hard to speak. To demand an explanation for everything that was going on. But I couldn’t. I wanted to scream.
And I woke up in cold sweat to realize I was dreaming.
The radio was actually on. And I, on my couch. But this luxury, I could not permit myself for too long. My eyes fell on the wall clock and cursing my way to the bathroom I remembered it was a Sunday; and probably last night’s loner’s party had a higher spirit level than my brain could take; hence the dream.
Coming back to m realization, I gave a jig, that it was a Sunday—a holiday and I could procrastinate breakfast if I wanted to and then go to Hashmi’s for a obligatory bite or simply satiate my hunger with some chocolates. I was glad I wouldn’t have to cook and then double the misery by having to eat those cold noodles for lunch at office and again reheat it to suffice for my evening meal. Suddenly I longed for someone to cook and clean for me. And just quite that.
Right when (halfway through my bath) I was philosophically reflecting that unhappiness is caused by not getting your heart’s desire and then by getting it, glimpses from my nightmare drifted back to my memory plates. Like the color of that man’s pants. Brown. I rebuked myself that we do not dream in color, but the glimpse refused to agree and obstinately sat back.
For the rest of my bath I kept wondering why did I have such a dream; who was the man and what was he burning. And why? Reflexively, I had set the macaroni to boil, much beyond my bliss that it was Sunday. And now stirring butter into the simmering breakfast, ‘what’ gained predominance over the Who and Why. Almost immediately, a voice inside my brain answered, one I didn’t quite want to take.
Carrying the bowl wit one hand and blowing the spoonful cold with the other ( as if that would blow away the apprehension as well) I squatted in front of my cupboard. In search of my manuscripts. The fabric folders were turned inside out. Every cubicle rummaged. Old bills, memoirs, greeting cards, lost keys, dried-out pen refills, old sketches tumbled from all corners. Even a few poems showed up tucked neatly inside pages of a diary.
But my manuscripts were nowhere to be seen. Nowhere. It almost felt like losing your passport and traveler’s check in an airport ignorant of the only language they speak.
I tried philosophizing. All of this, I told myself, must have a meaning, a significance, I am not being able to fathom now. Maybe, it meant I should start afresh. Steal some of myself from that 9 to 5 and start afresh just for myself. Maybe but why? Why—such a dream? Why—my manuscripts? Who was that person? How is he related to the actual disappearance? What else was included in that burning heap?
Re-disheveling my shelves, I knew one more thing was missing. A fountain pen. Handed down through generations. Almost as precious as
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How does gold burn? How does it smell? What color does it get? And Iron? These shackles? Those that now tie my feet to the bedpost of my cell?
The other questions are immaterial now. I have learnt to prioritize.
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