The Dream

Browjoe woke up one dusky winter morning, drenched in sweat. Something was amiss, but he could not quite lay his finger on it. Maybe it was a bad dream. He decided to ignore it and go back to sleep.  

Next morning, he took a shower as soon as he woke up. The sweat needed to go. And the smell that lingered on with the sweat, like an unwelcome guest, needed to go too. He left for his office sooner than usual. The traffic is always lighter in the morning, and the roads are a pleasure to drive on. Mumbai almost feels like a different city. As he zipped past other cars on the Sea Link bridge, he could feel the breeze on his face, and this always made him happy. The imposing Worli skyline dazzled in opulence; yet, just as one approaches the end of the Sea Link, the landscape is dotted by blue shanties full of people living in squalor. Thus lives Mumbai with its dichotomy, Browjoe thought, as he fixed his tie looking at his car’s rear-view mirror.

 

The day proceeded like every other day. He met clients, lectured them on finance and wealth management, wrote a few emails, killed some time in the canteen with his dull colleagues and then proceeded to drive back home in the peak of evening traffic. All the romanticism of the morning had been replaced with the dreariness of the evening. The incessant and futile honking of cars, beggars approaching cars with female riders at traffic signals, the snack seller with his shrill, high pitched note to draw attention, all happening amid a haze that descends over the city like a curse.

 

All through his return journey, Browjoe thought about the dream. It was hazy, a lot like the air in his city. But the basic contours were clear. And it was not comfortable.  

 

Ahana was back home. She looked nice with her hair down, and she was whistling her favourite tune. Browjoe sat down on the sofa, and Ahana brought him a cup of coffee. Fancy black coffee made from coffee beans roasted in his new coffee machine. One of the many modern-day delusions of posh living, Browjoe thought to himself. And a small piece in the puzzle that defined the drudgery that was his existence.  

 

“I can’t get over a dream I saw last night”, he growled. 

“Me too”, Ahana replied.

“Seriously? What did you dream?”

“You tell me yours first”.

“It was hazy. But I saw blood in my hand. And a knife. And a body, but the face was hazy. I think it was a woman. In our drawing room. Lying on the floor. I think she was dead. I am not sure. Then suddenly she raised a hand and it was drenched in blood, as if begging me to help. I jumped back and fell on the sofa. And that’s when I woke up.” Browjoe spoke at once, and he was sweating by the time he finished.

 

Ahona smiled. She had an incredulous look on her face. She gently stroked his hand and started to talk almost dreamily, “I had almost the same dream. I couldn’t stop thinking about it the whole day, almost felt like I would have a panic attack. I came back home earlier than usual. Slept for a bit and had the same dream again. Just that in my dream it is a man, not a woman. And the face is yours. And when you raise your hand suddenly, it has a knife in it, drenched in blood. I know it was a dream, but it felt so real. So real that it is uncomfortable.”

 

They sat side by side on the sofa, silently. They smoked a few cigarettes. They had dinner. And then they went to sleep. 

 

And soon enough, Browjoe started to dream again. It felt real. There was that dead woman, lying on the floor. He squinted, trying hard to see the face. It was like dreaming without your spectacles on. It was their living room for sure. And there was the body on the carpet, with blood oozing out from the head, forming a dark red pool behind. Browjoe bent forward, and he could finally see the face. It was Ahana’s!

 

Browjoe woke up with a jolt. He hurriedly put on his tracksuit and left home. The city at night was as surreal as it is in the morning. Not a soul in sight, with a sound of a night guard’s whistle floating in the air. The streetlights with their strange patterns on the footpath. 

 

Browjoe smoked a cigarette and listened to the waves crashing on the promenade. He saw his hands, and they were drenched in blood. And sweat. He smiled to himself. It was time to go. The sea beckoned!