When does dreaming begin for humans? The transition from childhood to adulthood is so complex that we barely recall when we first started dreaming. We learn songs like “Now I Know My ABCs” and “Five Little Monkeys” in school or during bedtime with mom. Yet, no one instructs us on how to dream.
I believe our mothers plant the first seeds of dreams in our young minds, promising us the moon — or Chanda Mama (a Hindi song for ‘Uncle Moon’) — if we finish our oatmeal. As we grow, our dreams transform from Uncle Moon to fairy-tale figures like Prince Charming and Cinderella. Eventually, life turns into a parade of dreams.
Since childhood, I’ve maintained a bucket list of dreams, big and small, checking them off as I achieve them. My goal is to cross off as many as possible before my time is up. Princess Diana, check. Hillary Clinton, check. Arvind Kejriwal, check (despite the disastrous meeting). Maneka Gandhi, check — another fiasco. Priyanka Chopra, check. Vidya Balan, check. The Louvre, check. The Swiss Alps, check. Pangong Tso Lake, check. A thrilling helicopter ride, check. Bacharach on the Rhine, check. Jane Austen and Emily Dickinson, unfulfilled, but I hope to meet them in the afterlife.
Unexpectedly, a social media personality made her way onto my list, staying there invisibly for nearly a decade. She sent a friend request, only to remove me shortly after I accepted. Since then, she’s been elusive, occasionally chatting for a few moments before disappearing again.
“When can we meet?”
“When can we talk?”
Despite these brief exchanges, we were like the North and South Poles. Beyond her status updates and bio, I knew little about her. Perhaps she knows equally little about me. Just as my heart and mind debated the desire to meet her, she asked again: “Free to meet this Sunday?”
My heart leapt with excitement: “Go meet her!”
My mind was cautious: “Be careful.”
“But why? You’ve always wanted this. It’s a dream come true.”
“She’s a mystery. You’ve never wanted to meet someone you admired so much.”
“Forget the philosophy. Rules are meant to be broken.”
As the weekend approached, I was a dreamer in every sense; like a child anticipating Disneyland; or a fan ready to meet their Bollywood idol.
Then came a surprise.
“Actually, Sunday is my hair wash day! It’s time-consuming and boring. I don’t use a blow dryer, so it depends on how fast it air-dries.”
“No problem. After waiting a decade, another week or month is fine. I’ve always felt we’d meet eventually. Maybe tomorrow, maybe another day.”
“Are you flirting with me? Meeting cancelled.” she joked.
“I lost that skill long ago.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Fortunately, Sunday was sunny enough for her hair to dry. There were no candles or roses at the seaside restaurant where we met. The setting was simple, the ambiance unromantic.
“Let’s introduce ourselves,” I suggested, sharing my journey from student activism to journalism.
“You may have just discovered me, but I’ve been reading and admiring your writing for years,” she replied. “I love literature, and not everyone gets that. I appreciate what you do.” She spoke about her journey towards completing her PhD.
“Why are your signature curls shorter?” I asked to change the subject.
“Oh no, am I being watched? I feel like you’ve been staring at my hair a bit too long.”
I looked at her intently. Here was a vibrant woman, lighting up social media with her charisma. Her face glowed like a full moon; her eyes sparkled like stars through a mascara veil; her smile revealed a galaxy; and her dark curls were like nighttime clouds.
“Stop staring.”
“I’m just trying to understand the mystery that is you,” I said.
She ordered dinner. While she tackled the skillet chicken, I toyed with stir-fried baby potatoes, like a child playing marbles.
The night was young when she ended the date, saying, “I need to leave.” It felt like she arrived, saw, and departed — a fleeting encounter that left me longing. As I dropped her off and watched her vanish into the shadows, I thought aloud, “Why is she so captivating?”
I hoped she would read, and reread, the John Greenleaf Whittier quote I inscribed in the book I signed for her:
“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’”
suresh@khaleejtimes.com
