These long days of holidays afford me a lot of time, as I made more than abundantly clear in my last post. Afternoons are long and soporofic ( yep, those IMS english classes practically pay for themselves), and more often than not I surrender myself to Morpheus(there I go again). Now I do not sleep for just the lack of anything else to do, albeit that is one of the main reasons, but also because these slumbers afford me some of THE most weirdest dreams and epiphanies that I have ever had. Trust me, night sleep does not give you such dreams or insights into life. I even found the answer to every question in the universe the other day, and no, it wasn't 42. Well, so this other day I had this dream. Stop, relax, this is not going the Martin Luther way, although I did dream one time that tattas and gultis were eating off the same table. Oh, wait, you want the answer to all questions of the universe don't you. Yeah right, daydream it yourself. Anyway, moving on, the dream that I had. That day, I had spent a very fruitful morning reading one of my fellow bloggers highly colourful and imaginative blog. Believe me, he defines nail-biting in an entirely new way. So, my morning in the realms of the king of India was followed by an altogether not-so-light lunch of shorshe-bata hilsa and rice. So the afternoon of imaginative reverie that followed was only natural.
So here it goes.
The sun just slipped it's note below my door
And I can't hide beneath my sheet
The song kept playing over and over in his head as he roamed the corridors. The corridors were a strange mix of memories, Hogwarts, Max Payne and the verandahs of Army School together formed a strange melange. He finally stopped in front of a door on which a plaque announced, 'Director of Dreams'. He knocked and the door just vanished. Inside was a man who looked just like how I imagined Charles Dickens would look.
"Why do leaks spring and springs coil?", he said.
"I'm sorry...what?".
"Never you mind. But let me tell you boy-o, it is bad form, bad form indeed, you calling your main character He. Give him a name for Dickens' sake!", he smirked at his own wit, "call him Dickens if your imagination is all worn out."
Singin' the same lines all over again
No matter how much I pretend
No matter how much I pretend.
No matter how much I pretend
No matter how much I pretend.
The song had come to an end.
So Dickens it was.
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To be continued with more shorshe bata Hilsa...
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