Dirty Dreams — Vol. 2 of 3 [Letters to a Doosh]

25^th February ’22 —Nainital— Sitting on a table next to the see-through glass wall at Sakley’s café. Outside are cocaine-snorting cows-&-crows and a lake filled with pro-abortionist slutty swans. 

Hey, Doosh

There’s a song I really love — River.

There’s a line, a question, in that song that instantly freezes my balls & then kicks them till they turn Oxford blue.

Here it goes.

Is a dream a lie if it don't come true

Or is it something worse?

No matter how I spin this, there’s no getting away from the rude truth.

It is, indeed, something worse

At times, I ask, “What about a dream that did come true, but felt nothing like I had imagined it?”

Questions, often, are a lot bigger assholes than the answers.

We, humans, love talking about dreams. We ask, “What are your dreams, Chloé?”

Mostly, Chloé & humans come up with mindnumbingly cookie-cutter answers —
“I want to be successful, famous, pretty, have a bungalow, a Porsche, fall in love, travel the world.” 

And more recently — “I want to go to Northern Lights [whatever the fuck that is] & Mars [Kill me & don’t even say sorry].”

These are desires, not dreams.

———

9^th March ’22 —Rishikesh— Sitting at a not-at-all-fancy German café overlooking Ganga-&-Gangbanger monkeys doing naked gymnastics on Laxman Jhula — looking to snatch-or-bang anyone who has a purse-or-pulse. 

I dream about tiny things. Like writing a poem or a letter for a human — then one day I sit down & write the damn thing. There — a tiny-tiny dream comes true.

I dream about kicking babies, kissing a crocodile, killing a cockroach. Haven’t yet kissed a crocodile, but damn right I will — And while I’m at it, I might as well go all the way :)

I dream about going to Melbourne [where I lived when I was 18-24]. Go straight from the Tullamarine airport to Hungry Jack’s on Bourke Street & get two of my all-time favorite grilled chicken burgers. And eat them standing outside my flat-chested wife-university [RMIT], which is also on Bourke Street.

Fun Fact: Burger King is called Hungry Jack’s in Australia.
P.S. I feel so inspired to open Hungry Harami’s in Delhi. Ha!

Then dump my luggage wherever & head to Halls [Monash University - my mistress-University], the residential campus in Clayton. Enter Farrer Hall & gently knock room 133. And say to whosoever opens the door. 

“When you were little, I lived here — I fell in love here — I made love here — I hope you, too.”

Then I will get the hell outta there & walk to Notts Pub & share a pitcher [surely more] of Victoria Bitters with [if I’m in luck] my college-days darlings Sam & Nee and Sarah & Ben.

I dream about meeting my grandma. She’s a million years old with zillion wrinkles. She’s the last of the family’s grands, who’s still alive. She’ll be gone soon.

She gets happy when she sees me. I get happy when I see her. I’ll meet her before I head to Bangalore next week.

I dream about hopping on a train to Dehradun. Take a Vikram [diesel guzzling auto-rickshaw] to my boarding school. After crying theatrically about how unrecognizable-&-souldead my bloody school is in 2022, I’ll walk down to the rustic tea & pakora place run by this adorable Sikh-man & have loads of freshly-fried pakoras & samosa [with tea] with his trademark meethi-teekhi chutney that still tastes like a first kiss — exactly how it tasted when my samosa & I first kissed it in 1994.

I dream of running a damn marathon this year after running 7 half marathons in the last two years.

 

I dream of picking up the damn guitar that’s collecting dust-&-rust in my room & learning just enough to strum it to the haunting love song I’ve written.

I dream of going to the second floor of 25 Kundan Park in Ahmedabad & remember those months I lived there in 2006 in a PG where I found my best friend — Baba. And before leaving Ahmedabad, go to this featherweight wunderkind’s doorstep & slip an overweight, novella-size letter in her letter-box.

I dream of divorcing the cellphone & travelling with an unreserved ticket in the general coach of a train. Get down at the dirtiest-&-shadiest rural station — start living there indefinitely. Divide each of my 24-hour days into four parts 

First: sleeping-waking-running-staring-at-trees&squirrels-while-eating-breakfast-with-kahwa. 

Second: cleaning the village with those big sweeper jhadoos till lunch. 

Third: doing whatever the villagers want me to do [within my limited abilities] like reading-&-writing letters/newspapers, teaching English, playing cricket with the kids, resolving social & domestic fuckups [I’ll try], fixing taps, making toilets, applying for govt. jobs/IDs, skill-building, kids’ school admissions & all those things that’ll keep the parents from selling their kids to the Saudis for a thousand & one rupees.

Fourth [& my fav]: I will name this “Brainwashing the Villagers” —I’ll teach the young village humans— that god & sexual morality are manmade [read out Sapiens in Hindi to prove it] — introduce them to highly illegal & deadly drugs like freedom of thought, sarcasm, satire, Tarantino movies, courage, creativity, taking risks, sport [other than cricket], exercise, love, art, & how frequent orgasms is the only route to World Peace & Human Happiness.

I dream of ditching clothes & living in a jungle with whichever the fuck animals are there & hope they don’t eat me for dinner or make me strip-dance & spank-me-silly while they eat their dinner.

———

4.29pm — 11^th February ’22

You got out of the car, turned left towards me & pounced. You held me so tight with all your force — a part of me was convinced that you’ll stab-or-slash me at the end of the embrace.

You never miss a chance to remind me how ancient I’m & that I must’ve gone to high school with the 96-year-old queen of England. 

At my age, nothing hits me anymore. Nothing makes me feel too tragic or too ecstatic. But I will remember that hellishly beautiful embrace. Not because you were wearing a bang-me dress & shining like diamonds. I’ll remember it because your embrace was as rare & as real as evil babies ;)

P.S. When we meet next & you give me one of your drawings/sketches/paintings — on the back of the canvas, tell me a few of your dreams, Ria — dreams that aren’t a prisoner to a stash of cash / American Express Platinum Card.

Take care & don’t die.
And if I don’t die, I’ll write to you another letter with stories that

— if you’re lucky, will give you instant menopause 

— if you aren’t lucky, will turn you into a vegan-eating-genderfluid-woke-lesbian ;)