BY SREEDARSANA R NAIR
You and I were talking in the dark
About dreams – in general.
It is easier to look at the vast outside, you say,
than the deep tragic inside.
Yet we arrive – subtly, eventually
At your dreams – vivid and dark.
You talking about your dreams? I asked.
Four more minutes into the grandiosity of his dreams, I ask again
Do you think he dreamt? my father?
Dreamt about us? Dreamt about a three-faced ghost staring at him.
Did he wake in pain? Yet more hurt by loneliness?
Probably, sure! You said.
(You were talking about your dreams again)
Do you think he ever had sweet dreams? I asked.
But we never wished him one.
Do you think he waited behind our tired shoulders to wish him sweet?
To be hugged and tucked in to a good night’s sleep?
Sure, probably! You said.
(You were saying alcoholics were more troubled by their dreams)
You have citations? Or is it subjective? I asked.
Do you think he was troubled by what he saw?
Did he worry that his dead mother constantly visited him?
(I knew for a fact that he was. I never bothered to follow up)
That she would knock at our doors every night to take him back.
Probably, yeah. You said.
(You were saying alcoholics have nightmares)
What is the original source? I asked
Do you think he dreamt of me? Because I never did of him.
Do you think he was scared in his dreams? -
But how so confident of his deeds?
- Scared like a kid who hides from her own father.
Because I always am.
Yeah, sure. You said.
Yes. The grandiosity of your dreams.
The horror!
Let’s keep it general, my love.