The Kids

Incident 1:
The yellow ambassador was cruising peacefully through the newly reconstructed road, from Mejia to Durgapur. I was sitting in the back seat with a co-passenger. The passenger in the front seat was chatting animatedly with the driver. I was comfortably daydreaming. The day was unusually hot, aiding my daydreaming, even though the occasional jerks woke me up to the present circumstances.

As the car was passing through the village of Maliara, several kids blocked us. They gathered around the car and asked for donations of Saraswati Puja. Our driver did not relent. After much haggling, the kids demanded ten rupees. Mr. Driver said that he went through the village now and then and he would give them the money some other time. But the kids were adamant about their demands. From the back seat of the car I could see the face of the driver in the rear view mirror. It was getting darker every second. He handed out a five rupee coin and said that they would get the rest later.

Now the atmosphere was really heating up. But remember my reader, we are talking about kids. Nothing to fear from them! Or so I thought until something very unexpected happened.
The group was steadily becoming loud-mouthed. One of them laid flat on the hood of the car, with his legs firmly planted on the road. He called out loud, ‘We won’t let you go until you give us the money...’ Our driver roared the engine to intimidate the little hero. But he was far from being intimidated. He shouted back, ‘Go on! Run the car over me! I won’t budge! (it stands like this after translating his strong accent)’

He looked at us with threatening eyes. The other kids were also looking at us with eyes of contempt, anger and challenge. Their mute eyesight screamed out, ‘Don’t try to over smart us. We won’t let you pass as long as we have life in our bodies...’
It was a curious little moment. I could not decipher my own feelings towards the children, hardly any older than twelve years. Was I angry at them? Or was I admiring their audacious display? Or was I worried about the future they would land up in if they did not change their attitude towards life—to take everything by force? Perhaps, I was feeling all three emotions.
Before the tension blew out of proportions, our driver relented sensibly. He handed out a ten rupee note and we drove on.

Intermission:
On our rest of the way to Durgapur, I thought about this little incident and a lot of older memories came back. But before I go into my memories, let us ponder on the incident 1. Why did it happen? Was it poverty? Was it neglect? Was it the frustration from being pushed around for too long? A bunch of ten years old kids acting like a martyr for so trifle a reason. It thoroughly reminded me of a picture of a young Chinese standing in front of a tank in protests for democratic reforms! The re-enacting of the gigantic scene took place right in front of my eyes, for the sake of five rupees. And the look of anger! They shouted back at us making angry gestures and they are just kids...that is the most troubling bit. They are kids and they are acting in a wrong fashion with no one to check them or correct them. Several grownups, probably who knew them, watched the show, not saying a single word...not asking them to behave in a proper fashion, not telling them that it is not wise to settle everything by violence. They are a bunch of misguided little kids and they are walking the wrong path in the wrong time. Not that there is any right time for walking the wrong path. But this is the time when the clay is soft and it can be moulded into any fashion. A crooked shape is the least wanted.

I remember that I had seen an episode in a television series by the name of Ehsaas. It was about a middleclass man stuck in a bus-depot for a night, along with few other people. All night long they talked about the cancer of poverty that was holding our country back. They offered many solutions for the problem (I don’t remember the details). A group of coolies were sitting in the far corner of the bus-depot, surrounding a merrily crackling fire. The protagonist of the episode left the company of the fellow strangled passengers, probably bored by their conversations and went over to the fire to warm his hands.

One of the coolies said to him, ‘Babu, I have heard everything you fine people were saying over there. Honestly tell me, do any of you people intend to make the conditions of the poor people better? Will that man give his warm shawl to any of us? No. The answer is no. You need people like us to stay poor so that the society remains balanced. If we become rich, who will carry your bags?’

Saying this, he laughed.

Perhaps he is true. With all our talks about making this world a better place to live in, we never really mean them. Deep inside we never want the downtrodden to come up.
I will give you another anecdote. I was a kid back then. I used to play a lot of cricket back then. For some days, a lot of our team members were not coming to the ground because of some reasons and the remaining few of us teamed up with some the boys of from the servant’s quarter and continued our games. It was fun. They were fine players.

Two or three days after, the father of one of our team mates caught up with me and asked me why we were playing with them (meaning our new team members). I could not think of anything to say. ‘Because they are good players’, I said to him.

He told me that his son was not going to play with us as long as we associated ourselves with the likes of them. I did not see the boy in the fields for a long time after that.
I was too young back then to call him sick. But his behaviour did appear weird to me.
Now there is another event like this, but from the other side.
I was not a kid back then. I was a teenager. Every day, while coming back from tuitions, I used to have fuchka at a roadside portable-store. The man who sold the fuchka was old and always grumpy. One day, the man got into an argument with another man with the amount that man owed him, for the fuchka. The customer appeared to be a well to do man, from his attire. After settling the argument, and paying the money, as the customer was going away, the fuchka-seller shouted to his back, ‘Yes, yes I know. You are a gentleman and we are ____man (the word he used is too inappropriate to put into writing)’.

And there was this same anger in his voice, which I noticed in the eyes of the rebellious kids.
Days come, days go and we never think about what is going on around us. We lie cosily in our rooms, shutting the door. But this overwhelming disorder, all this wrong and violent eruptions prevail.

But often a cool breeze brings peace after a very hot day.

Incident 2:
I was sitting in the bus for Kolkata, mulling over all these things when a sharply sweet smell found its way into my nose. And a sweet voice found its way into my ears.
A small girl was selling incense sticks.

‘Dada, dhupkathi neben? Aek packet dosh taka. Du packet kuri taka. Tin packet tirish taka. Char packet chollis taka. Dada neben? Ami school dress kinbo ei takate. Dada nin na...khub sundor gondho. Agun lagalei dhore jay ar onekkhon teke. Dada didi neben?’

‘Brother, will you please buy incense sticks? One packet-ten rupees, two packets-twenty rupees, three packets-thirty rupees, four packets-forty rupees. Will you please buy it from me? I want to buy my school dress with the money. Please buy it, sirs, it has a beautiful fragrance. It lights immediately and stays for a long time. Will you buy one from me?’

She was speaking in such a sweet voice that it made me forget what I was thinking a few moments ago. Normally, I would have paid no attention to the seller, but this girl was different.

She was a kid and a sweet kid.

I beckoned her.

‘I will buy one’, I said to her, even though I did not need it and never intended to burn it. And so did some people in the bus. They bought the packets of incense sticks from her.

She thanked everybody in her low and childish voice and got off the bus. I looked at her for a long time and smiled. She went to a hawker, probably her father, and both of them left.

A Walk To Remember

My mind was filled with melancholy. I was too distraught to sleep. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I felt the burden of loneliness crushing upon me, for the first time in my life. It was a strange night. The night spoke in my ears about how I have chosen to lose all that was special to me, all that I held dear.

I sat up on my bed, frustrated. And then it occurred to me, like a blissful breeze. I have to do this today. If not today, then when? And if I don’t do this today, I will never be able to do it.

It was nearly four in the morning. But outside, it was hardly any better than the night. I dressed up and packed my bag and was ready to leave. I woke up my mother and told her that I will be gone for some time but I would return by afternoon. I told her not to worry about me.

But as I stepped outside the door, my heart was filled with uncertainty. So, I thought that I should sit by the lake for some time. And so I did. I sat on the cold bank and prayed for strength for the journey that lay ahead of me.

At thirty minutes past four, I started walking.

This was something new for me, something out of my imaginations. For days I had hoped for this. For days I had planned about setting off so suddenly and without any destination. But for days I had only planned and never dared to actually set off. And here I was, walking alone in the darkness of the early morning of winter, my fists clasped between my armpits to keep them warm.

There was something magical about the road that lay ahead of me. The fog of night allowed me to see only a few metres ahead of me. The rest was shrouded in its thick envelope.

I have to remain vigilant, I kept saying to myself; for the trucks ran like hell on these roads and they, too, must be suffering from visibility problem. At any sign of distant headlight or rumble of engine, I stepped down from the road and walked on the sidewalk till the monstrous vehicle passed by me.

After half an hour of walk, I was going through a village. It was so dark that I could not even see myself properly. I heightened my auditory senses. And as I did so, even the most ordinary sounds seemed to become extraordinary. The chattering of crickets rose like a din. And even the faintest rustling sound made me start. I stepped up my pace. The ghostly atmosphere was getting on my nerves. But at the same time, at some level, it was bringing peace to my mind. I can say so because the overwhelming melancholy of my mind was slowly ebbing out, making way for a profound sense of purpose.

A series of high tension wires stretched along the side of the road. The darkness, the fog and the crackling sound of the HT wires... oh what a symphony they created together...as if the night was waving its wand like the conductor and all its elements were obeying its every motion, thus creating a harmony of musical fusion.

The road that I have travelled for years appeared unfamiliar. It was out of a dream world. And it reminded me of a dream I used to have when I was younger—I was walking alone on a straight road for eternity.

The emptiness around me was obvious. As far as my eyes could see, there were no settlements...only fields with dried crops. I crossed a mustard field. Its yellow colour flashed even in the darkness.

I varied my pace from time to time. For some time I walked briskly to cover the maximum ground and then for another interval, I walked slowly to give my legs some rest. The road seemed never ending.

In an hour and half, I had covered eight kilometres. The day was becoming clearer, even though, the sun was not visible yet. I stopped in a village, by the name of Maliara. I had bread and a rest period of about fifteen minutes and then I began my walk once again.

One-third of my journey was over, for by that time, I had fixed my mind on the destination. It was Durgapur. From Maliara, I stepped off the main road and moved into a bypass road through the village. The milestone by the road showed me that Metali, another village, was seven kilometres from here. The Durgapur Barrage was another five kilometres from Metali.

The sun had come out and the magical aura was disappearing. But the sense of purpose was not lost. When I had set off, I did not know my destination, but now it was different. But there was a little problem. My legs were wearing out and I did not know how long it would take before they succumbed to the pressure. I am no hiker. And the longest I have walked at a stretch, willingly, was for an hour or two. But this journey seemed never ending.

After I crossed the eleven kilometre milestone, the first signs of real fatigue began to appear. It was becoming really difficult to walk. So I decided to have a rest period. I sat beside an irrigational canal and tried to find a small amount of peace in the kol kol sound of the flowing stream. I stretched my legs, feeling the warm gush of blood through my veins, bringing relief to the wearied muscles.

The journey became difficult from then. I had not slept at night. As a result, my head was dizzy. To top it, my legs were aching and my back was hurting. I felt pity for myself...at my weakness. But I kept walking, at the same time. I kept saying to myself—at the end of the journey there is peace, but to find that peace, I must reach the end of the journey. I have to walk.

When I reached Metali, my legs were screaming and all I wished for was a soft bed to lie on. I kept repeating to myself...only five kilometres...four kilometres...three...

Oh! Why doesn’t this road end? The closer I came to my destination, the harder everything became. I tried to keep a normal face, biting back the pain that was searing through my limbs. The journey seemed no longer magical to me. All the charms and heavenly beauty were gone. All that remained was numbers—the distance that separated me from the barrage.

And at last, after walking for almost four and a half hours, with two very short breaks in between, I was there. I slumped onto a bench and could not move for the next twenty minutes. I sat there, wondering what the purpose of all this was. I was tired to the bone but at the same time I felt cleansed from the inside. My mind was at peace. Maybe this is why people go on pilgrimage...to cleanse their inner dirt by the pain of their limbs.

The water of the Damodar river appeared peaceful, but a thousand ripples glided through the surface. And the ripples brought with them masses of floating water vegetation, like entire continents. They merged together and dispersed, took new form every now and then...so magical and yet so neglected... They all speak out to us, asking us to follow them. And if we listen to their call, everything falls into place, every last piece of the gigantic jigsaw puzzle. And we hear the eternal words—peace...peace...peace...

Oporajito

Dear My Blog Readers,

It was a perfect date. The date was 11th March. And I was with my love, enjoying the cool shades of the trees of the beautiful little park. My hand was in her hand and her hand was in my hand. And my thoughts floated around her and hers floated around me. We were together and we were one. And then it came out of no where. It broke the chain of my thoughts. It took me to another world…a world that was built by the idea of perfection. It was supposed to unlucky. But it was the greatest talisman that could have been there.

The shalik landed gracefully among the fallen leaves and stood still for a while. And then it turned towards me and I towards it. And we looked at each other, transfixed.

And then I said to my love, ‘Look, sweat heart. That is the most amazing bird I have ever seen…’

And she asked, ‘Why do you say so?’

And I answered, ‘Look at it carefully and you shall know.’

And she said, ‘Shubho…’

And I replied, ‘Look at its leg.’

And she said, ‘But…’

She looked closely and exclaimed, ‘Shubho, it has got only one leg.’

‘Yes… yes… it has only one leg and yet it is standing still.’

And, indeed, it stood still. The bird turned and hopped. I wondered whether it would be able to maintain its balance. I had tried it many times in the past, in my childhood, when I used to occupy myself with such one-legged hopping games (popularly known as ‘kit-kit’) and I knew that it was likely that one would lose his/her balance after such a jump.

But the bird was stronger and more stable than any human could ever hope to be. It negated my premonition and landed swiftly and gracefully once more. Then it bended its leg and lay flat on its breast. I wondered why it had done so.

Was it taking rest?

Was it building up the potential energy that would be required during the next jump?

It pecked on the ground and lifted something into its beak. And then it leaped once again…and again…and again…

Not even for once did its leg tremble; never once did it double hop to regain its balance. It seemed as if the bird was the embodiment of the word perfection. It was a bird from the heaven. It was a bird of light. It was a bird that can not be beaten.

And I asked my love, ‘I think that we should name the bird. What do you suggest?’

And she answered, ‘Oporajito.’

The finality in her tone echoed my thoughts. ‘Yes’, I said, ‘Oporajito will be a perfect name for a perfect bird.’

There is so much to learn from the bird’, she said softly.

‘There is so much to wonder about it’, I reflected.

The bird hopped around for a while, steadily going away from us, minding its own business in a way that suited it; and it minded its business more carefully and precisely than any other bird could have. May be its handicap had to do something with it. But then I thought, would that bird not be so perfect but for its handicap. I did not presume to know the answer. May be it would be, may be it wouldn’t. These presumptions were irrelevant. What mattered was that it showed me what can be achieved in life only if there is a will and an indomitable spirit.

The bird hopped and with each hop it defined the divinity of creation. And then it spread its wings. And within the span of its wings it held the universe, for the universe was not without it. It flapped its wings, its leg firmly placed on the ground. The storm that it created propelled it skywards, towards infinity, towards its home…

And I stared at its wake, feeling alive all of a sudden. I looked at my palm. The bird was hardly any larger than my palm and yet it could give shelter to more courage and determination than that this six foot tall body of mine can ever dream of.

I said in my mind, ‘Goodbye Oporajito, king of birds. No eagle can ever challenge you; no hawk shall ever defeat you… for you are the messenger of God. You are the light to the lost souls. Show them the way. Help them to live. Teach them never to give up. Teach them to stay still as you can stay still. Teach them the meaning of perfection. Teach them the meaning of your name…’

This was the story of a bird named Oporajito. This is the story of so many Oporajito s around us who try and try and try till they die. Even if they fail they are never defeated.

This is directly to you, My Blog Reader: do you know any such Oporajito? If you know then can you honour me by beautifying my blog with tales such Oporajito s? Their stories deserve to be told.

Regards,

Shubhabrata

The best birthday gift...

Dear My Blog Reader,

It is my birthday today. Ah, yes, today I turn nineteen. Now I think of it, nineteen years of my lifespan is already spent—what memorable nineteen years they have been. It has been an all round package! Nineteen years full of dreams. Now I will have them back only in my dreams. Do not think that I am feeling depressed; I am not that old yet!

Now, let us come back to our original topic: the best birthday gift that I have ever got. Take a guess, please. What? You don’t know? Oh, how foolish of me! Of course, how would you know?!

Enough of play acting, I guess. Let us become serious once more. I received the best gift on 10th January, 1989 at 7:47 am; that was the time when I breathed freely for the first time in my life. I am thankful to my mother for giving me this gift of life. Nothing can surpass the gravity of this gift.

This was a very short post.
Why?
Because it was never meant to be a long post.

Love,
Shubhabrata.

Being an adult...

Dear My Blog Reader,

It is a long time after which I am posting something on my blog. I thank you for being patient with me.
I had written this piece on 25th April, 2007, while relaxing on the parapet of the roof of my house at around 3 at night. The philosophies and ideals I had till that night have not changed a bit and so, I thought that it would be nice to share them with you.


Before turning eighteen I often wondered why an age limit of eighteen had been set to distinguish between a child and an adult. I confess that I have not found an answer yet. I have always believed that whether a person is adult or not is decided by the level of understanding his or her brain has attained. A wise man had once told me that there are three types of boys in this world—‘under matured’, ‘perfectly matured’ and ‘over matured’. These terms had been coined by him. I understood what he meant by ‘under’ and perfectly’ matured, but I failed to grasp the meaning of ‘over matured’.

Doesn’t the term ‘over matured’ carry a hint of derision? Does it mean that a person should not attain a certain level of understanding capability before reaching a specified age? Doesn’t this remark of his imply that he feels insecure because he cannot match the youngsters with thoughts having frequencies much higher than his? This is not about a single wise man, this is about hundreds of other wise people around us who never seem to come to terms with the fact that the little boy is now an adult and that he has a thinking process that might be radically different from theirs.

We live in a highly conservative society (especially, the so called middle class society); even though we may call ourselves XYZ generation, deep within ourselves, the ancient black hole continues to pull us back. We call that black hole ‘culture’ to hide its grotesque and destructive nature. I would like to ask all those liberal people (parents and children included) who contradict me, why do they feel ashamed to discuss sexuality? It is not as if the young generation will not be drawn towards exploring the individual sexuality. Why, then, do they not explain every bit of this unknown quantity to their children and why do even the young genext feel ashamed of asking questions?

We shout our throats hoarse about equality of women and men. How can they be called equal to men if both sexes do not get equal opportunities? Why, again, are most women married off as soon as they reach a marriageable age? Why do the women accept such outrageous decision? Do they not have any dreams and ambition which they kill off to admit themselves docilely to some screwed vision of few people? We are indeed living in a black hole where a father announces that if ever his daughter runs away from home she will be welcomed with a gun, if she ever comes back, where a father does not hesitate to rape his daughter; where a death sentence is brought down to a level of public entertainment; where street dogs eat little babies, lying helplessly on the roadsides with no one coming to save them; where it is a crime to fall in love but it is normal to urinate in front of everyone.

It is not just about sex and marriage and oppression of women, it is about transformation. And this black hole which we live in, does not allow this transformation to occur. A person, who has turned eighteen, is expected to have gone through a series of mental developments and is ready to venture in to the final stage of transformation of mind. He or she is expected to be capable of handling all the responsibilities that an adult can handle. This transformation must result in the building of character by which the child metamorphoses into an adult and becomes self reliant and self decisive and responsible for him/herself and those around him/her.

Being an adult does not only mean that the person is eligible for voting, having a driver’s licence or watching ‘A’ rated movies. It means that it is time for the parents to step aside from being the rule makers to an advisory role. It is time to start analyzing what you like or dislike, what is right or wrong, to create your own beliefs, to discard all the unnecessary compulsions which stop us from being who we really are. This is the time when the already matured soul becomes truly independent.

One thing that is commonly, and not wrongly, associated with adulthood is career. It is high time to form a clear picture of what you want to become in life and remain inflexible on your decision. Remember that it is your life and only you have the right to decide what you want to make of it. Most people, whom I have met, are absolutely clueless about their goals. These sorts of people end up becoming wrong person at the wrong place. Being adult means that it is time to get off the merry-go-round and take firm steps towards your desired destination.

This is the time when you should take TOTAL CONTROL of your life. I used the word control, not anarchy. Staying out late at night to enjoy the perks of ‘adulthood’ is utter nonsense and ‘unadultish’. Being an adult means that you become responsible—responsible for yourself and for the few people you care about. Unfortunately, this transformation is hard to achieve and most people fail to achieve it. They eternally remain children. They may drink bear, smoke Havana cigars, drive race cars and have a lucrative job but they are no better than children lost without their parents.

Taking control of one’s life is to start understanding the meaning of freedom. Freedom—it is the most important thing that a person can achieve in his/her life. It is the quest to understand the soul and how it is related to the body. It is freedom of mind that has to be achieved. It is the state where we can proclaim loudly and confidently, “Even though I was born in this prison with my hands and legs bound by iron shackles, my soul flew freely over the mountains and clouds and seas and forests. I saw everything, I learned everything, I peeked into the human soul and understood the purpose of its existence… and even now, as my body dies in these shackles, I can say freely that I was never a slave…”

Why am I writing this blog?

Dear My Blog Reader,

I am writing this post as a reply to a comment posted by one of my good friends, Debotosh Poddar, on ‘La vita e bella’. His comment was thus:

“It would be too simplistic a view and an unnecessary romanticism to claim that life is all beautiful, grand and ethereal. In fact it is very often cruel, ugly and deceiving. The beauty that we see is so much more like a mirage that is ever running away from us and only leading us to greater and greater sorrow.
But then happiness must surely exist in life. May be we are only trying so get hold of its shadow and hence we are never really finding it.”

I could have replied in the comments section but this is a better path…


It is very presumptuous to think that I am unaware of the brutalities of life. I have lived on the face of this planet for almost nineteen years (a bit less, if I exclude the years of which I do not have a conscious memory) and I have seen something of this world. I have developed some analytical power through all the experiences that I have had during this short journey and I have developed of a power to distinguish between right and wrong, beauty and ugliness. And I have come to many conclusions about life, also. Though these conclusions are not rigid, they are not arbitrary in any sense.

I believe that life shapes itself up into the way one chooses to look at it. If I choose to look at life as some adventure, life will become an adventure for me. If I choose to look at life as a burden, it will bend my back. If I choose to look at life as a serene morning stroll, I will be able to smell the fresh air of dawn. It all depends on how we choose to see what we see.

I shall take an example, though I am not too sure about its applicability here. Still, to err is human…

Let us step into the shoes of a soldier. He fights, he kills. Let us assume ourselves doing that. The feeling is nauseating. It is painful even to imagine that we are shattering the skull of another person with a rifle. But for a soldier, it is life. It is all about survival. It is all about setting the dial of mind at a certain frequency. A soldier has to look at an enemy as an enemy and not as a person. If he cannot do that he cannot live. Maybe he will survive the bullets but he will not win over his conscience. So he chooses to look at life in such a way that it would be easier for him to live.

Here it is important to understand the difference between leading an easy life and choosing to live an easy life even in the midst of all hardships.

Now I come back to the question that has led us this far into the post. Why am I writing this blog? Why am I so strongly emphasizing on the fact that life is good and beautiful even though there is a lot of ugliness around us? The answer is simple. It is what I choose. I choose to preserve only the beautiful side inside me while being completely aware of all the grotesquery. It does not mean, however, that I shall remain unperturbed by the darker side. I shall analyze the mishaps, see what I can do about them and then let them go. I shall always remind myself that there are things in this world which are so graceful that even the thought of preserving them makes my fight against the hideousness of the world a worthwhile fight.

Will you call this eagerness to lead a happy life, a life of contentment, this determination to hold on to these beautiful things a vain romanticism? Aren’t grandness and ethereality one side of this life that we live? Why should we let gloom to overshadow such wonders when we have the capacity to choose?

This is the prime reason why I am writing this blog—to look at the beautiful side and be fascinated by it. I wish to present this blog as a breath of fresh air to those who are disgusted by life’s ugliness. Isn’t that a job worth doing? Will you still call this proclamation—La vita e bella—a vain romanticism and a very simple approach towards life? It is the toughest way, friend, it is the toughest way…

Something I noticed about dreams...

Dear My Blog Reader,

I noticed something about the dreams we have and I wish to share this revelation with you. Of course, you might be very much well acquainted with this phenomenon; in that case, pardon me in advance for repeating that which is a known stuff to you. For those of you who have not realized this revelation, this is what I have to say to you…

This afternoon, while battling with the engineering mathematics book, I had drifted in to a short nap. While I was asleep I had a dream. I do not remember much of what I had seen in the dream. It had something to do about getting lost in a huge dark room. While the subject matter of the dream may be unimportant, something struck me about this dream. Not just this dream, but many of the dreams which my conscious mind can recollect had one thing in common. They all appeared real.

Never once, during a dream, have I felt that what I was seeing was just a figment of imagination and something unreal. I had always broke into cold sweat when something frightening had happened inside that dream, revelled with joy when something good might had happened, cried with horror when I had watched a love one die… but never, even for a single moment had the thought oh-this-is-just-a-dream crossed my mind. In fact, some of those dreams had been so real that their effects did not easily fade even when the dream had broken.

For example, once I had had a dream about a gem that looked like a diamond from the top but had a flat base. I refer to the jewel as a touch-stone; I am not quite sure of what the term means, maybe it refers to a stone which reveals its properties when touched by someone. That is what the gem in the dream did. It established a telepathic connection between the person who touched the stone and another person with whom the user wishes to communicate. In addition, the stone filled the person, who touched it, with a boundless, inexplicable euphoria. In the dream I touched the gem and suddenly I was surrounded by white mist and I could hear a voice uttering my name. At the same time I was feeling immensely happy for no apparent reason at all (maybe it was because of the voice inside my head, I do not know). Instantly, I woke up. Even when I was awake I was buoying with joy. It felt as if I had actually touched such a wonder stone! Then after sometime, the feeling faded and I knew that it was a dream.

The point is that, while we are inside a dream we are barely (never, actually) aware of its presence. Everything we see inside a dream, however absurd that thing might be, we never question its realism. It is not until a dream is broken that we recognise a dream. Even though we are aware that we would have a dream almost every time we sleep, even though we have had dreams for all our lives, even though we know so much about dreams, its patterns, its cause and yet a human mind fails to recognise a dream when it has one. How is it that we are fooled every time?

Is it because of the innate human flaw of comprehension? Is it because we go on appearances, completely oblivious of the fact that appearances can be deceiving?

O reader, when will we finally see…