I dreamt of you.
You were sleeping somewhere, on a rock, or on the sea, or on a white surface which I understood as the moon. You had your right hand raised and kept on your forehead. The pulsating whiteness of your palm, seen through your slender fingers, tempted me to come and hold it. Your left hand was resting on your stomach; on the wrist your one golden bangle shone brightly, as if it is made of sun’s light. Your third finger was beautifully bare.
You were wearing a sari. In the dream I felt that you were too young to begin wearing saris.
You were breathing softly and in the dream I felt your warm breath falling on my chest, like flowers falling. I wanted to come near you, sit down on the rock or on the sea shore or on the moon and take your right hand in my hands. And then I wanted to kiss you on your forehead. But I didn’t come, neither to take your hands nor to kiss your forehead, because I didn’t want to lose the bliss of watching you sleep so peacefully, I didn’t want to miss those rare moments in which I can see your tranquil face, those moments which I get only in my dreams.
And then suddenly everything changed. Your face lost its placidity of young trees. I found you withering. The rock on which you were resting crumbled. The sea started receding as though to foretell gigantic waves. The moon began to wane. You were crying in your sleep. Tears rolled down your white face, they made streams of bitter sadness, and your lips trembled.
I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t bear you crying. I couldn’t hear your whimpers.
I tried to wake up. I didn’t want to be in that dream; I didn’t want to be in any dream in which you are crying. But I was not able to wake up. It was like I was punished to stand there, beside that rock, on the seashore, in the sky watching the distant moon, and watch you dissolve in your own tears. I was punished to stand there without being able to do anything.
From somewhere in the world of that dream your voice was heard, though you were still sleeping with tears rolling down your closed eyes. Maybe your breath, those falling flowers, was speaking to me, or the strands of your hair that were waving in the sea wind, or perhaps your eyelashes.
Your voice, whimpering in unfathomable grief asked me –
“Why didn’t you come? Why didn’t you hold my hand and kiss my forehead? If only you had come, if only you had come…”
Your voice choked. The tears streamed down and doused your black hair.
Not able to look at your face, but at the same time not wanting to take away my eyes from you, I looked down your body. I looked at your left hand resting on your stomach. But I couldn’t bring myself to look at your fingers for fear of seeing something unacceptably tragic, like a lost ring-finger. The eyes behind my eyes searched for a ‘you’ to look at without being burnt.
It was beyond my endurance. In the dream I too tried to cry with you. But no tears rolled down my eyes. I tried to console you, but I couldn’t utter a word. I tried to come near you, but I couldn’t move a step. I was like a marble statue standing in the scorching sun without even being able to breathe.
When I woke up I had another terrible attack of asthma.
