On Chasing Dreams

When I am done chasing everyone's dreams that I think are mine, will I chase mine?

Privileged are those who know what they want but blessed are those who know what they want and never had to rethink that. If I were to ask what is it that one wants from life or career, most of us will have an answer ready - money, fame, luxury and so on. Are we not limiting ourselves? There is so much more that we can get! Some of us will shy away, not sure if their dreams are worth sharing and important, some have never thought about it because there was always someone else who did the thinking and some only have a vague memory of where they had started. And yet when the so-often-asked question "Where do you see yourself 10 years from now" comes, we all have an answer.

The first day

Day 1

Writing Prompt: Everyone else was laughing.

Everyone else was laughing. I stood there in my place wondering what the joke was. The first day of school was never my favorite even though I had too many of them. Or may because I had too many of them. Those people who said “practice makes it perfect” had not considered first day of school. The string of my first days of school begins with a day when I had stood at the corridor of my school and cried as I watched my father walk away leaving me alone.

The Walk Home

Day 0

Writing Prompt: Your mother

Your mother never told you to stay away from strangers. You grew up with them. She was never there to rebuke. Or was she? You look back for the last time and then walk away. The road ahead is dusty and deserted. ‘Destination does not matter, the journey does’ – those strangers always told you. And today you wonder if it is true. This lonely journey does not look promising but at least the destination is known. Or so you think. When was the first time when you had walked on this road? You don’t remember. Memories are not reliable anymore. Not with so many of them, not when you cannot distinguish memory from illusion, not when all your memories are of unfamiliar places and unknown faces. Your stomach rumbles. You squint your eyes to look at the sky. It was not noon yet but you will have to find food soon. The question is where. A distant noise lifts your spirit. May be the town is near but you are not sure. You have seen enough mirages in your life to think better. And although this is not a desert, you know that the mind has its own tricks. You walk on, lost in thoughts.

It was not difficult to wake up before the break of dawn. It was not difficult to leave all those people whom you had hardly known. Nor was it difficult to walk on an unknown journey. But it was difficult to follow the path to a destination. You feel a bounded by the knowledge. The freedom to change your course is lost.  But is that true? Were you really free before this? Bound in a journey with a group of strangers who changed every day, where was freedom? With unknown destinations, only the paths were decided. And that too, you never knew by whom. You had followed them for all your life without questioning because you had never known another way existed. Then you met her. She had changed your life, not once, not twice but time and again. Each time you started a journey, she was there to ask you “Where?” and you had no answer. Had she asked today, you would have told where. You smile. Memory or illusion, for once, you don’t really care.

You stop. The town is here. The road is not deserted any more. You can see small houses clustered together. Somewhere in those cluster is your destination. You hear a voice beside you and turn your head. A small old lady asks you if you need anything to eat. You nod and walk into a small shop. The noise drowns your thoughts and dim light hurts your eyes but it brightens your heart to be among people again. How long has it been? You have lost track of time. In the beginning you had counted the nights, making sure you rested after sundown. But then you grew impatient and walked even after nightfall and then finally you stopped caring. Food is really good and you gobble up to you heart’s fill. Once your stomach and heard had their fill, you take out your only belongings, a newspaper and an old weathered photograph and spread them out on the table. On one small corner of the newspaper was an address. You show it to the old lady and ask her if she knew where it was. She strains her eyes, tries to read, mumbles something then calls someone to help you. He reads, nods with recognition, looks at the photograph, looks at you and tells that he will take you there. You are happy and unsure all at the same time.

The town is teeming with people. All of a sudden you felt lost in crowd. Walking along the side tracks you reach a small house. Your companion stops and looks at the house. The house looks abandoned. You look questioningly at your companion. He does not answer. You look down. It was time to return to the strangers. He tells you to walk with him. You follow him to a deserted path, walking below a string of trees, you reach a graveyard. He leaves you there and walks away. You stand there staring at your new found freedom.

And then when the night came down, the old lady comes and you walk home.

The Open Window

A rumbling sound wakes me up. For a moment I am lost. Where am I? A second rumbling sound reminds me that it’s still summers in most other places but here. The rain whose thoughts had lulled me to sleep just a few hours back had woken me up with its angry shouting.  Just above my bed is my cluttered table. A diary filled with notes lay open. On it are notes of my stay here. None of which captures my important thoughts, or at least thoughts that I will consider important a month from today. The travel book had its various pages folded by the corner and the pen was careless perched on the last page I had seen. It listed the places to stay. Planning my travel was one of the things that continued to keep me excited. Probably being ‘on-the-run’ kept my mind at peace. The window that noiselessly struggled to be free was beyond the table. I stretched my hands to open the window. It was closed in the middle of last night to keep the mosquitoes away. In my half-asleep state I had decided as long as I could really sleep, I did not care about the heat. No sooner did I open the window, the lights went off. It wasn’t dark yet, the somber light washed on my crumpled bed sheet.  I stared out. The long lazy weekend that I had been dreading last week had come to an end. I was still alive and sane. Or so I thought. Does talking to myself count as being insane?

It was getting dark. The keys on my keyboard are not visible anymore except at the lightning flashes. Rain! What is it about rain that fascinates me? I stare out again. A strong lightning blinds me and a loud booming noise swallows the songs from my laptop. For a moment my heartbeat stops. And then I laugh. Wasn’t I just talking about fascinating rain! It’s the sounds. The sound of splashing rain drops, the drops pattering on the leaves, the wind swishing through the trees. It’s the memories. The memories of paper boats, of running under the rain, of holding hands, of waiting beneath a broken roof, of chasing time, of laughing with friends, of cycling through the rain, of reaching home drenched, of drowning my tears, of writing endlessly, and of so many other things. The thoughts are so overwhelming that rain never, never fails to steal my moments. Like it did for years and like it is doing even now.

It is really dark now. The window across my room is visible only if I strain my eyes. The rain has also calmed down. The lightning and thunder are far away and less frequent. I come out of my reverie, close my laptop and walk out of the room. The reception desk is empty. Outside the hallway, the door is still open. I stand at the door inhaling the scent of the drenched earth. The darkness had engulfed everything. Even the doors and windows of the guard room are closed tight. Contradicting all of them the window in my room flutters in freedom echoing my heart.