I had a very bad dream.
Don't remember too well but I have a hazy memory of being somewhere upstairs in a house. Very dim light. Ting tong, ting tong, TING TONG...the bell rings again and again, louder and louder! I know that if I open the door, something bad will happen. People will storm in and burn the house down or kill me. I feel that I make a movement of tying my robe. I panic and look in the next room for my father. I can't find him. The bill rings louder and louder. And despite the fear, I get ready to head down to open the door. Except that I see my father opening the door.
And then I forget. But far away, I see a line, a long line of dangerous looking men with gaamchhas. They are hazy and soft and grey. I particularly see one man towards the right. All of them are facing house and staring. But this man is looking at me.
I woke up hearing the bell ring. I woke up opening the door. There was no one at the door. My father was doing Pranayama in the next room. I was safe. My family was safe. My house was safe. But I crumpled back into bed a heap of nerves with my stomach knotted up. Some dreams don't feel like dreams. They feel like memories.
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Guni had been a drifter for a good many years of her life. When she had a little bit of money, she was a traveler, not a drifter. When she had money and a sense of adventure, she was a wanderer. When she had neither, she was a loser. Having spent moments along this whole spectrum of nomadic juiciness, she saw herself as the Unbelonger.
Anyway, five years ago, the world had changed. There was a strange type of acidic pollen in the air and Guni had had to stay home. At first it was very tough. Then it became easier. Then again it got excruciating. Then again it got sweet. Then it remained as incessant and prolonged as a piece of unchained melody. Since Guni never went out, she stopped seeing the sun, the sky, the rain, the wilting flower, the pierced clouds. Over time she stopped seeing altogether. And on the day she went completely blind, the world opened up.
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