Monday, September 15, 2008

Super charged obscene dreams

I had one of these. Obscene not to the outer eye to which it can be narrated but very subjectively obscene as an experience which bunches, clutches all obscene experiences that I have had while growing up. The dream starts when it is drizzling, it is around six in the evening, about to be dark. I am tired, very tired after a day at some work place. I board a bus and outside it is dark now. While still on the way the bus stops and almost automatically, I get down out of the bus. In retro it makes me think I wanted to reach home but since now the image of home is not so welcoming and concrete, I am not certain about the destination. Once I get down, on my left, I see a long straight dark road. Again, as if it were etched in the mind, I know I am ill and that I must see a doctor. The doctor lives in this very street and I must see him. Somehow, suddenly I realise I am wearing my school uniform all this way, peach shirt and chocolate skirt with a black school bag slung at the back. Before I go to the building at the end of the road,I must leave my bag behind. So, I walk halfway down where there is a building on my left. It has two levels, A and B. To get to A I have to climb B. But B is like a huge table made of bricks painted in pale yellow. By the time I climb it to put my bag on A, B shakes and I fall down. The bag is safe up there. So, now I start running towards the other building. I can feel every pleat of the skirt swish near my knees, sweat all over me. While I was in the middle of the road reaching the building, my feet did a backflip. I could feel the anxiety of having left my phone in the bag, the yellow display flashing and beeps ringing. I half wished to go back and get it. While the feet charged ahead, the eyes stuck on the bag, what I could see was all split. In this split of the gaze I saw the fugitive. There has to be one. I recognised him in a flash. I wish I could draw him. He is the same one who hounded me for class 6, 7 and 8. I wonder if I was mentally retarded or just stunted then. Initially he would follow me only on some days on his bicycle. I did not even notice. Then, gradually it became a daily affair to grab attention. I feel like a real slut with so many encounters quite subconsciously. I was so afraid of him that I used to cycle fast everyday to end this trauma. His following was limited to a certain patch. I never told a soul about it thinking that it was bad enough it was happening to me. Same fugitive again. But I did not pay attention. I went to the building and it had spiral winding stairs on the side. I grappled and sweated like a mad dog in panic. Climbed those stairs and reached Dr. KrishnaRai_______ Goswami's clinic. I do not even know this name in real world. Again, in retro I wonder why I did not tell mom or dad to take me. They don't know this man. I stumbled upon the brown marble plaque with his name etched on it. Now the paranoia was at its zenith. I had to go back to retrieve the bag. I could feel fugitive eyes on it. I rushed back. The whole street was still dark and empty. When I went back, he was out of hiding, exactly advancing towards the bag. He climbed B like me, and fell but could not reach the bag. I reached there and told him, I never really resisted you. Leave the phone, leave the bag, I begged and pleaded. It is me who is here, then what else do you want? The hungry wolf pondered over the proposition and weighed it better. He let the bag go in oblivion and advanced towards me. I actually felt like the "femme fatale" with plans for puppets. What shame! And then suddenly, like Alex, I started belching. I caught hold of him and belched more, cried "in and out" and puked utter, sheer yellow bile on him. By now I was half aware of what I was dreaming and the funny bit was that I was actually quite aroused and my face bore a scared expression. It was like I could freeze that emotion, take a photo and replace this whole text. Super obscene, gross, all veiled reactions to few actual happenings, few desired happenings and few imagined ones. What a harlot, touched and brushed!

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