The Dream

This masterpiece marks the origin of that epic journey, undertaken by a great writer, poet, scholar and an intense philosopher. I, wrote this when I was eight years old. Herge's Adventures of Tintin : Explorers on Moon, was the inspiration. I was absolutely smitten with the comic series. There had to be a way I could go to The Moon with Tintin, captain Haddock and Professor Calculus.

Then the idea had struck me, one clear summer morning, as I sat in the bathroom with my head lost in clouds. That sparkling little vision was turned into a rhyme soon, and memorized. Once out of the bathroom, I had written it down in one of the back pages of a notebook Dad had got me, to practice maths in. I remember I had then run to him with the scribble. Dad to this day, is still the first one to read all my compositions. May be some day, he will be the first one to read my first novel. May be some day, I will have written my first novel, and may be some day, many more novels will follow my first novel.

Later that day, I had read the poem to my uncle, when he got home from the market, carrying bulging bags with spinach peeping out of them. I had read it to my Grandmother, who nodded rhythmically with the recitation while she hunched and laboured over the stone spice-grinder in the kitchen. I had then read it to my mother, in a high voice, from outside the bathroom door and she listened to it while she poured water over herself.

I had read it to my brother, who had merely spread his baby limbs on the bed and slept through the poem. His stomach heavy with milk went up and down as if in sync with the melodic lines.

I had read the poem to our maid, who I hardly believed had caught any essence of it. She had blankly smiled at me and was surprized when my recitation ended in so few lines. I might have read Milton's 'Paradise Lost' to her. At least it would have lasted until she had herself full with my lipsy speaking, which she liked so much.

The neighbour's dog had understood the poem better than our maid. It had enthusiastically, appreciated the rhyme, after I had finished. I so wished I could understand whoof language. The regret stays cosy in my heart even today. A writer needs good critics. I had lost on one.

Later, when school commenced after the vacations, I had gathered all my courage and produced the poem to my English teacher. She had read it first from my notebook with some serious expression and then turned and asked me to recite it to the whole class. I had then shamelessly tortured my friends with my recitation which by now I had mastered with all the practice. I now barely needed to look at the notebook. When I had finished, they all cheered. Many of them personally complimented me. I still remember each of those compliments. They were not tainted with any obligations as they often are today, but were presented to my honour in pure admiration.

I remember, next day I was asked to recite the poem in the morning assembly, in front of the entire school. When I had stolen a glance at our principal, I noticed Father D'souza. His grace, in spotless white, angelic robe, was smiling encouragingly at his little Wordsworth. I still remember that smile.

Fourteen long years have passed but it all seems like yesterday. Those few rhyming lines are still etched in my memory. I have written many poems in all these years, but none is as special, as that eight line dreamscape. For it now holds memories. It now glistens with the hope and aspirations of an eight year old, who as she embarked on her journey to eternal literary glory, felt her dream, bubble in her insides. Who, every time she was appreciated with surprised nods, baby snores, echoing applauses, smiles, claps, compliments and whoofs, realised, she was magnanimously blessed by all those, she held, closest.


The Dream

Once I saw a very big rocket,
Suddenly I stood up, with hands in my pocket.

The professor told me to go to The Moon.
I was very happy, to hear it soon.

The rocket was launched and I was in the sky.
I saw Mars and Jupiter, flying and passing by.

Suddenly there was a crash and I shouted and screamed.
And fell down from my bed and realised, it was a dream.

A Stranger On the Table

It happened at half past ten in the morning, on one fresh September Monday. After, a swift walk past the garbage bin which benevolently, without fail, everyday, wishes good morning with its aura of divine fragrance, after a spectacular marathon and acrobatics display to catch one of the killer blue line buses [as the newspapers declare them to be] and after being rigorously tossed about in the Metro, by a crowd of holy souls, We had reached the University at nine, just in time for the class.

When I say 'we', consider two souls, lost in oblivion, as they brave the mesmerizing journey to the campus, in monotony. When I say 'we', one person is I, me, myself. The other is my beautiful partner in crime, my friend, my companion, my co-sufferer, Dhaarna, who successfully attends her classes between sick leaves.

I love my subject. It is for the first time in this masterpiece I am not saying in sarcasm. English Literature has always been my facination, and I have been good at it from the very day I was, perhaps, conceived by my parents. But somehow every morning, the very thought of attending classes leaves me paralysed to the core, with enormous lethargy. It is then I look forward to my pretty Dhaarna's guest appearances. Her mere presence, in class, by my side, pacifies my mind which otherwise is inflamed with indignation at being the only one who was forced to sacrifice her sleep. We enjoyed our nine O'clock class today, as we rested ourselves on rickety wooden chairs and waited impatiently for it to end, being meanwhile scorched with whooping magnitudes of wisdom.

After what seemed a wondrous hundred years, the professor obliged us with his absence, and it was at this half past ten on this fresh September Monday, we sat on our wobbly chairs and gossiped ten million female subjects.

"I am sick of this pimple on my forehead, it sits there all day with its ugly face." I was grumbling as usual. "Use some face pack. Papaya is best y'know, for skin and all." Dhaarna modestly suggested while fiddling with her phone which under her care, by this date had survived many disasters with just a crack on its screen. "Oh Gawd! why is he not calling me. I have been messaging since we arrived here." "Don't worry, He must be sleeping. Hey what excuse did he invent today for bunking by the way?"

"Cheek Bite!"

"hmmm, nice one." And then this line was followed with some giggles. "why doesn't he see a dentist. This is a recycled excuse, things must be serious." "yeah, he said he will see one today. I think the appointment has held him back."
Akhil aka Kurt aka many other cute names bestowed on him by his sweetheart, his admirers, his fellow rockers and some insane aquaintences, is our third. We are Athos, Porthos and the missing musketeer. Swine flu, ongoing discounts at music land, the overflowing metro feeder and the strong sun, often hold him home. Today he had bitten his cheek.

"yaar, I think I will go mad. There is so much to do this year. We haven't got the notes for the classes we bunked last Tuesday. Who do you suggest do we ask for help?" I was sliding into some budding concerns which were expected to bloom into severe headaches by November, with exams round the corner. "No idea. There are so few who have opted for that course. May be I can ask Anu. But can't do that alone this time. You will have to come with me." Dhaarna said with some thought. "Sure." I encouraged.

Her pensive face was slightly struck with disappointment. The concerns which had taken me now had started to cast their spell on her. She turned and stared blankly at the lecturer's desk, with the dilapidated white board in background. Suddenly her expressions changed. Her eyes widened, her lips twitched to make room for an excited smile. "what is that?"

A glass tumbler was on the table today. The microphone crouched over it as if it was dying to kiss the tumbler. the tumbler however stood firmly, as if dismissing the microphone's perverse approaches. It contained a strange flurocent fluid, of a colour which was mostly yellow with a hint of green in it. Its glow pierced its way through the eyes of the onlooker.

"what is that." I repeated her question, perplexed. "Dunno" she replied, her eyes still fixed on our object of facination. "that wasn't there before". The next moment I wished those were not my words. Had that been there before, we would have known what exactly that was. "Do you reckon its a drink?" I asked, so as to hurriedly mask my stupid earlier line.

She was silent, as if she was conversing with the tumbler in telepathy. Then she turned and grinned widely. Jerking her hands in circular motion, she said, "maybe it is radium sherbet, it makes one glow in the dark." This was ulimate humour. The best line of the day. I couldn't help but laugh out loud. The concerns about notes, bunked classes, exams, all then vanished in the cool September air.

"But who is it for. All students of this class are already so bright. Seven question to the professor with such obvious answers today. remember? Sure they don't need it." I said adding on to the joke. "for dumbos like us." She said in equal interest. "Brightening solution. Hey, don't tell me you were actually counting the questions." " I sure was. What do you expect can help me hold on to my sanity while I so desperately wanted to scream?" Another round of giggles, and then it subsided.

"yuks! what colour! Seriously, what do you think it is?" My friend was now probing into the matter. She was no longer joking. I had to help her with all my knowledge. " I once went to Connaut Place you know. There they sell pineapple juice in one shop, near Janpath that is. for five bucks. Its of this colour. Flurocent yellow. I wonder if even pineapple's 'P' exists in the drink."

"Is it tasty?"

"yeah, I had it once. It almost churned my insides out."

"do you think its that drink?"

"No idea yaar, I don't think such a drink is available anywhere here, and who in their right mind will bring one all the way from South Delhi to North campus to place it on the lecturer's desk at the arts faculty?"

"Hell! then what is it?"

I was falling short on my resources. She seemed to be bothered now. That intriguing drink sat motionless, and stared down at us coldly from the lecturer's desk.

"Do you think if it gets spilled on the table, it will burn a hole?" I was now steering the subject away from dangerous waters of understanding into the safety of imagination.
"May be it will. It will perhaps react and give fumes" She seemed to fall for my trick.
"flames? do you think there will be any?" I asked with mock astonishment. "might be", She shrugged.
"I wish I could pour some over Kumar's head. he is such a bore. He will mess up all the four topics he is given and then by the end of the year we will be left soaked to our bones, in tears."
"Good idea".. Giggles ended the conversation.

Suddenly a girl walked past the table. Her slender waist hit the corner. The table gave a loud screech. "Owww" She exclaimed as she massaged the side of her tummy. "Oho" Dhaarna exclaimed and puckered her face in shock. Few people turned from their own conversations and looked around for the source of all the noise. "Are you ok?" A sharp girl voice yelled from somewhere behind us. The hurt student slightly nodded her head and feebly smiled. Pain still hung to her expressions.

With the sudden chaos, we were jolted out from our cosy fantasy. As some people began entering the room in haste, we realised the next class has begun. I stooped to fetch my bag from under the desk. Dhaarna rummaged in her own bag for a while and then bent towards me to whisper in my ear, "do you have an extra pen?" I dug in my bag and found my notebook, a photocopied version of the text and pens for both me and my lovely partner.

As we settled down for the class and finally moved our gaze towards the professor who was now adjusting the microphone to her lip, we noticed the glass tumbler with the yellow liquid.
It was now in animation. Two surfaces now criss-crossed each other as we observed from our chairs. The fluorecent yellow was steady. What danced to rythmic speaking of the, graying lady, was the transparent water inside.