I have been witness to many interesting dreams. The word ‘dream’ itself is so loaded that readers would wonder if I am talking about what I see when I  sleep, or the aspirations I want to be materialized. Either way, I have had colourful dreams: while sleeping and in reality. I once dreamt that all of Connaught place had turned into an island. At the ‘CP island’,  people were waiting at the bus stops to take ferries. In another recurrent dream, I see myself driving a car expertly(something I can’t do in reality), just then I am chased down by street dogs. Now, I dream of driving a car even though I have mastered riding a bicycle in my late thirties; and for a long time into my youth, I was morbidly scared of dogs, particularly the rebellious and intelligent street variety. However, in my dream, I drive with the panache of a formula racer, kicking the dogs running alongside the vehicle.  Can you imagine the preposterousness of it all? I am holding the door of a running car open, to settle my score with some menacing pariah dogs. Anyway, I always wake up triumphant.

Sometimes, dreams are so vivid in language and imagery, they prompt you to write. I cannot take much credit for the dream-inspired poems that I am sharing on this platform, apart from a few edits maybe. The first poem is a recurrent dream of a boy from my school days. I had a huge crush on him. He is as if frozen in an ice cube of the nineties; I still see him as a 16-year old. 

The Constant

The boy of sixteen

Lurks in the corner 

Of my oft dreamt dream.

His auburn eyes untouched

By life’s ever-changing seasons.

Soft features not rendered

Rugged by time’s rough scrubbing.

Silent, smiling presence

To my constant chatter.

The warm space between us widens

When I wake up—

A woman in her forties beaming

In the glow of teenage tenderness.

The other poem, inspired by a very graphic dream, was borne out of a painful period when a friend left me suddenly. I was impacted by the abruptness of it. It took me some time to come to terms with the finality of our relationship.


She left

Without a word.

For days I felt

Someone had clutched

Out my heart.

There are clouds—

Big, grey, puffy—

Painted by her

On my barren walls.

The clouds are raining





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Rashmi Sharma

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