I am a dreamer. But my dreams are totally frivolous, often with no beginning, no end and sometimes no middle either! Scenes from a ‘Theatre of the Absurd’ play by Beckett.
My adolescent dreams were highly women-centric, fantasising about voluptuous beauties. Elizabeth Taylor and Sophia Loren were hot favourites, followed by desi varieties from Bollywood. As testosterone levels declined, my dreams too changed in content and variety but not in fatuity. As a young probationer in the bank where I worked, my dreams were mostly about waylaying and assaulting an exceptionally nasty boss.
Once I entered fatherhood, filial love began to dominate my dreams. A particularly vivid dream was about a race through the Amazon forests which my school-going son and his friends had to go through. I was coach-cum-guide to one of my son’s friends. Dressed like Tarzan, I helped the youngster negotiate rapids, swim through crocodile and piranha infested waters, and fight off fierce wild animals. In the end my protege won the race, beating his nearest rival (his first cousin!) by a huge lead.
The Mayor of Manaus, dressed in his ceremonial robes, then awarded the trophy to him, while I beamed and grinned foolishly, still in my outlandish Tarzan attire, with loincloth and dagger.
Strangely enough, my son seemed to be nowhere in the picture. I also dreamt that the defeated cousin’s parents refused to speak to me for several months.
The transition
Now I am a portly, bespectacled, mild-mannered 70-year-old pensioner, I often wish I was younger, fit and virile. That probably explains some of my more recent dreams where I appear macho and aggressive. One such saw me on the streets of Karol Bagh in Delhi.
I was suddenly attacked by three thugs who demanded my wallet, which I refused to hand over. In the ensuing fight, I kicked and punched my way through, knocking one of the assailants unconscious, while the other two fled! With total sang froid I then sauntered back to my hotel, ignoring the admiring looks of the bystanders! It was then that I suddenly woke up, to discover my terrified wife cowering at the far end of our bed, trying to protect herself from the vicious punches I was raining on her face. Ever since, she makes sure she sleeps as far away as possible from me.
Patriotism, too
Old age has brought in patriotic dreams as well. A few months ago my wife and I were in Hong Kong, staying with our son.
One night I dreamt I was a freedom fighter, marching along with Gandhiji to gherao a group of Britishers who were ensconced on a small island just off the coast. As we were about to cross over to the island, a gang of raj supporters chased us and many of us had no option but to jump into the sea and swim on to the island.
However, I chose a novel method. Springing onto a tall, slender arecanut tree protruding from the sea, I used it to jump across, much like a pole-vaulter using his pole. In the process one of my sandals fell off, whereupon I very magnanimously, and in true Gandhian fashion, threw off the other sandal too, so that my footwear would come in useful to whoever found them.
Landing on the island, I ran to the double-storeyed house where the British were staying. It was then that I was discovered by some loyalists who shouted, uske tange thodo (break his legs) and proceeded to do exactly that, using a large log lying around. I then woke up, screaming in agony, to find my son and his wife rushing in from their room to find out why the old man was making such a racket.
Sigmund Freud is no longer around to analyse my asinine dreams. In his absence, maybe I should request Jhumpa Lahiri to write a sequel to her Interpreter of Maladies and call it ‘Interpreter of Dreams.’ Maybe I should write to the government asking for a freedom fighter’s pension. My meagre pension is proving to be sorely inadequate and any supplemental income would be helpful!
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