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Of dreams and resolutions …

February 27th, 2008

While I am in a wailing kind of mood right now, let me not rant.

The aim of writing today’s post is to express gratitude to that unknown theater called Providence.

So it has been several years (well, not as several as you may think or I thought of as I was on my way back home!). Let’s put it that it has been some years, some years since we spoke. Or rather, some years since he built the wall. Of course, things were very painful, ugly and difficult, but then they were and there was nothing much that I could do about them.

Last evening, as I was flying to Mumbai, I noticed the mountains during our descent onto the city. I wondered whether these were the mountains of Panchgani. Then I thought, I must be wrong. But those beautiful mountains reminded me of the mountains in Srinagar, those beautiful and ruthless mountains who I consider as my mother, that mother which taught me about beauty and ugliness through the scholarship of life …

So, I was reminded of Kashmir, of Srinagar, of that place where I have learnt of both love and hatred, the intensities of love and of hatred, the many facets of love and hatred. There I was, about 4 years ago, but never returned thereafter.

So, I was reminded of Srinagar when I saw those mountains. Then, that thought of Srinagar translated into my dreams last night. I dreamt of him. He appeared from somewhere in the streets. The streets had these dilapidated wooden homes, almost like the chawl frontage of Mumbai. We both started walking on the roads. We spoke of something to each other. I felt myself very serene in the dream as I was talking to him.  He felt it too. In that serenity, I felt he was admiring my beauty. He was admiring my speech, as he has done in the past. He was admiring my maturity, like he has done in the past. He was enamoured to some extent. And to some extent, I realized how much we had loved each other, how much …

Then we walked together to his home, his home from which I have been exiled for four years now. We walked up to the first floor. I saw Faiza (though it was not Faiza). I said bye to him there, stating that I was not sure if I was to come upstairs and meet his folks. He, in his usual crafty manner, smiled and said bye, leaving it open for me to decide whether I really wanted to come upstairs. And if I wanted to come upstairs, it was to be purely my decision. The consequences were to be purely and squarely mine.

The dream was certainly a resolution. It was also a calling, a calling to come back, to come back to the place that I have called home. I don’t know how long it will take for me to come back home, to those mountains – my mother, to the waters in which I have sunk and learnt to swim, to those Chinar trees upon who I have cast glances in moments of sheer romance, to those roads on which the adventure of my life has passed and who still call to experience the unknown … To Srinagar, my home …

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