What are dreams made of

A handful of contemplation that was initially mere fancy. A bountiful of thoughts that never saw the light of expression. A song that came to your lips as a hum and didn’t budge until you could remember the perfect lyrics. An article/youtube link you came onto that inspired the idealist in you for that iota of a second. That flimsy cone of ice cream with your favourite flavour being sold on your road to office.

That rose you chose, but could never give it to her. That perfect first kiss which happened hundred times over already in your head. The sweet revenge you waited for so long, but couldn’t play because that’s just not who you are. All those times you said ‘no’ to something when you desperately wanted to shout ‘yes’. Every sleepless night spent thinking/wishing/working something that just didn’t let sleep win over. That seemingly ‘dead’ leaf that delicately fell over you while walking just when you were about to give up on signs, giving the belief a new life.

After all, if not for all of this, what would be there left to the dreams to dream for?”

And suddenly the nib of the pen stopped midway after an inning of 10 minutes non-stop. But that’s how the Wench wrote. Impulsive, passionate squirt of emotions, to the point of diverting from the topic sometimes. But then, that’s how your thoughts-pumping mind (or heart?) works. Isn’t it?

Your mind doesn’t put categories (How good lingerie, or any lingerie, should not be spoken about when talking about your favourite instant mood lifters) or the elite ‘writer’ like finesse your piece should have (How I should think about ice creams and popular flavours in the market first before I can write about vanilla sex because that’s how an intro-body-conclusion prototype go).

A Dream Catcher.

Coming back to the topic of dreams, what if someone could be not just a dreamer but a dream catcher as well? Getting curious with it, Wench decided to give it a try too. So she picked up her bag and left for her favourite yet most hated city, the topic for most of her dreams. Favourite because she found her own set of wings there; and hated because at the end of the day, it wasn’t her jungle. 

Throughout the way, the excitement was watchable. She was actually giggling sitting in her auto as the City of Concrete approached.

But after spending half-a-day and continuous efforts, she couldn’t catch any of the dreams she had there. The entrance looked different, they had put bars what used to be her favourite spot, the corner where she buzzed often now felt strange and the people, her favourite people, even though the same, did not feel familiar anymore.

Perhaps dreams are not yours once you’ve dreamt about them. For you bring them into reality as you dream them, making them prone to changes, realization and some more changes.

It’s been a while that Wench doesn’t get her trademark nightmares anymore.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKfDwChOoHI

“So how was your trip to kasol-Malana, eh?”

*Due to constant insistence by the nervous-excited geek, the 'geek' has been changed to 'nerd' now! 

The last stop to come. Up and down, down and up. 14 hours in the bus and still counting. The stop-down serving unappetizing food and overpriced coke. The last smoke sitting on the highway. Feeling thirsty. Feeling not-so-thirsty once you find the water bottle. Re-tasting the anticipatory thrill of trek. Excitement about the inner-peace to follow. Realizing that you need to pee at the worst hour and waking up the entire Volvo to go out pee, sing, fall, break your knee and sing some more in the wilderness at 3 a.m.

Checking on the rest of the group. The idea of putting nomads together who hardly knew each other (or hated each other, when last checked!). A mindless Casanova, a sugar-high photographer kid, a nervous-excited geek nerd who gets high on sugarfree sweeteners, a planning freak and the Wench herself! Pretending to get high on coke cans and catching giggling, budding love in new couples (The ride finished at the one of the cheekiest honeymoon destinations, Kullu).

That deep breath! That deep breath that comprised the cold from the adjacent jungle, flavours from the bakery at the street and mist from the nearby waterfall! Food. What good food! Eating that fresh trout fish grilled with amazing butter and garlic and stuff. That rare smile of warmth from strangers fellow people you don’t know with such ease here. 

 

With the rainbows~!

Cool dude, I say!

The café that has its décor after a ‘stoned’ version of The Garden of Eden. The footloose singer from Israel who performs there every night in exchange for his dinner and make some new friends. Daily! People not giving a shit about what they wear. I, not caring a thing about what I wear (or not wear). Patting a dog almost the size of a wolf and feeding him off your share. Starting a conversation with anybody just about anything.

The nomad singer!

Dedicating the night to a bottle of wine and a river in its full force giving you company bashing its way inches away from you. Looking at the river from a distance and dealing with the impulse of crossing it; dipping your hands and feet in the ice-cold water and realize it’s better to rather admire it while sitting on its bank with scattered sand and broken bottles. Passing out comfortably in the cozy arms of your friends.

Malana. The village of taboos. That original trek with creaky wooden bridge, steep and undefined route, and a naughty bunch of plants that stung every time you touched them (Actually, they found ways to touch you. But of course, they made it look the other way!). The trek. The marijuana leaves everywhere. In abundance.

That impulsive detour to the waterfall. Giving way to another impulsive jump in the water. Giving your head into the fall at the highest pressure spot. Get out. Breathe. Give in your head again. Let it hit you. Let it wash away everything that’s been there. Let it make you feel clean, hopeful and humble.

Getting lost, twice. Not finding a soul around. Despair catching up. Arguing with each other. Losing things on the way. The shaking up of beliefs with the new, the unknown. The curiousity of what lies ahead. The fatigue that comes from tireless guessing, doubting and of course, walking.

Noticing the first building, telling us we’re done. The skeptical locals, distancing themselves from us at the mere sight, sort of living up to their image. Excited children waving at us from the open school, half-filled with the skepticism inherited from their ‘adult’ surroundings.

Instant feeling of being an outsider.  Finding a group of people who back in town, work half a mile away from where we do and instantly feeling familiar. Getting high. On pure food, thanks to the sheer fatigue. That moment where a bunch of local women happily have a conversation with you in a different language. We spoke ours, they spoke theirs. Still a happy conversation!

Sitting on another river bank with a friend. And a lovely mountain dog who competes with your friend for your attention. Enjoying the view. Understanding that where you were sitting was a dam-enclosed area where water in full-force is released at random hours when two old men shout at you and get you out of there. Realising you could have been washed away like tiny leaves had the timing been wrong (or just right!) Two happy leaves washed away in cold, humbling water.

Metro announcement telling you you’re 20 minutes away from home. Blinking your eyes, you feel like it was just a long dream you had. But your sore legs, dirty socks and the body aching for pure sunshine and natural flowing water tells you another story. It takes time after all adjusting to the normal routine once the hills have owned your body!

She is a staple feature in our Jungle stories (in left)

Pictures credit: Prerna Nainwal