By Aman Malik and Aakriti Malik.
He stood before the wooden door, which appeared like a giant boar, what lay beyond was all but forgotten, and yet he was familiar with it, like the times when you are asleep and yet awake.
He pushed the door with a mighty force, and was greeted with a mist seen never before. The swirls and curls of silvery white engulfed him thoroughly in pure delight. And then the song began to play, from above the ocean and over the moon, he felt at peace and closed his eyes, for there wasn’t a purer moment in his life.
And then came the dream, and there he was, dressed up like an ancient Greek, bathed in whiteness. He looked to his right and found another man, who stared at him with a searching glance.
“I am known as the Boss, and you are my apprentice for the day,” he croaked. He was startled and amused and was about to say — “No,” cried the old man. “Only I speak here, even if you think it is not fair. We travel far and wide every day and collect the things that you are about to see. Dreams, my young apprentice, are more precious than a gem, and yet many the vials you see before hold the lost dreams of a century of men. No, not those night dreams which come and go, which are nothing more than a crooked show — in these vials are the bigger dreams, which say ‘I want to be,’ ‘I want to see,’ ‘I want to change the world!’”
The old man then whispered in a solemn voice, “There are millions of dreams that die every day, some young and some old. We sort them, group them and pack them in these vials — clear labels please, and add them to the main files.”
Thought this Greek-dressed man, “Never knew dreams underwent a procedure — a daydream, a sweet dream, or a nightmare — but the biggest ones found and treasured here!”
The old man walked the alley softly, with dreams that moved in the vials, spirits, it seemed, lived in them, waiting to come alive.
He spoke of the dreams that could conquer hearts, and ones that travelled far and wide, but the noblest of the dreams — few on earth — had people forgotten to strive?
As he entered the room, the sun rose, with the night sky far away, and all the birds chirped their best, as the room honoured the dreamers of each day. Here crystal mugs shined and sparkled, to the dismay of the ordinary vials, for they contained the dreams worthy of nothing but a thought in itself, sublime.
The first mug glistened “Plato” with it, the name beautifully engraved. Then Marx, then Freud followed soon, among the great dream mug lines. The contemporary mugs stood empty, waiting to be carved.
“Oh, Lord — let them dream, the kids of today. No dreams they have for long, they make, they break, they wish, they crush — not a noble one to stay? Their forefathers, with their dreams so true — has this generation been led astray?”
Said the old man to his apprentice, who, mesmerised by the thought that came, the place, heaven, a delight to be, meant not for those who didn’t dream.
Sighed the apprentice, on hearing what he did, he wondered of a dream of his — bold enough to make a difference — pondered, silent, he looked outside, to see the sun aglow. The light, it felt, touched his heart, as on his face rested a content smile. He had found a dream of his own, awake, with his lids closed for a good while.
Thought he of valuing the dreams, many a lecture spoken on them, but perhaps the children, as they dreamt, never pondered on the way they felt. And if they did, they lost, like a haze, with many a trace gone, and the bits they had in the mind, incomplete, of the dream now gone.
So he thought to himself: if only dreaming could be valued, for as they led a road to the unconscious, they paved many a road ahead. But this dream, the noble one, unique to the categories defined — he wondered if it was dreamt when asleep, or when awake in broad daylight?
Perhaps, like a jewel, this dream as well — indeed, a hard one to find.
This man bowed to the old man, gesturing him if he could speak, wondering his silence for so long. The old man now sat and said, “Your thoughts I hear, feelings I feel, do not be surprised, my friend, with plenty of examples given to the kids of dreams reached, survived and lived. Perhaps the biggest lesson we think is to teach them how they should be dreamt.”
Both agreed and nodded their heads, hoping for mugs to be filled, as on a crystal shelf waited dreams, waiting to be fulfilled.