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I had had a dream, a dream about a man … a dream that had made me so restless that I sat in my bed, wide awake. Was it something to do with Purva? Dad? Pitajee?
7.00 a.m.
Who was it? The restlessness that I felt in the dream was so intense that I can feel it even now…
3.00 p.m.
I was sitting in the office staring at P.P. Padma’s bindi when, pretty much like it happens in Bollywood movies, flashes from the dream began to come to me.
It was about a wedding … his wedding…
7.00 p.m.
‘Mooli ke paranthe today!’ said Veena Aunty, the instructor of the cooking course, and I groaned out loud, making no attempt to camouflage my disinterest. Twice a week, I now suffered unadulterated torture in the form of these classes. As Veena Aunty and Anju Aunty are bosom buddies who caught up on a regular basis, I did not dare miss a single class.
Veena Aunty cast a disapproving look in my direction; I was far from the ideal pupil. ‘Pushpanjali,’ said Veena Aunty, looking pointedly at me and talking to her favourite student, ‘how excited are you to learn the tricks of making the perfect mooli ke paranthe?’
Now Pushpanjali, I suspect, has been born to marry. Her big day was drawing close and, having spent a lot of time abroad, she was keen to transform into a Hindi-speaking, parantha-cooking bahu that her in-laws could be proud of.
‘Bahoooot, bahoooot!’ she said obediently in a thick accent.
Veena Aunty clicked her tongue. Correct answer, Pushpanjali, I thought ruefully as I poured two full glasses of water into a bowl that contained a handful of flour.
‘Not glasses! Table spoon! T-B-S-P. Not G-L-A-S-S,’ said Veena Aunty, looking dismally at the milk-like fluid that was in front of me.
She shook her head and walked away. She was close to giving up on me. That was when, as I ran my hands through the watery mix, it hit me.
The dream. The man in the dream. Not Purva, not Dad and not Pitajee.
Rajeev.
7.30 p.m.
I can see patches of the dream now. It comes to me in bursts. In my dream, Rajeev is standing on the stage, about to get married, surrounded by people. Through the crowd, as his to-be-wife speaks to him, he spots me and still
s. Transfixed, his eyes follow me as I leave the room. Sometime, somewhere later, Rajeev and I are standing face to face and he tells me he can’t marry anyone else and neither should I.
That was when I woke up.
9.00 p.m.
There is something deeply disturbing about my dream. I was so distracted during the cookery class that I made perfectly round and absolutely delicious paranthas. I suspect that the 150kg, ghee-loving Veena Aunty was closer than ever to a heart attack when I presented the sumptuous paranthas to her. I should not do this too often; after all, I do not hate her enough to have her blood on my hands.
They say dreams bare your soul, spill out to you your most intimate fears and reveal your innermost desires. Was there something that the dream was trying to tell me? It is true that I have been thinking more and more about Rajeev of late. It has been two years since I last saw him and I am still dreaming about him. It does not make sense. Rajeev hurt me and I still smart from the stings of his adultery. And yet…
I am very confused and very tired and wish Purva were not as busy as he is.
10.00 p.m.
I don’t.
10.01 p.m.
I don’t.
10.02 p.m.
I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.
