Dream Portrait - Visitor's Story
by Ratan Lal Basu
(Kolkata, India)
Ratan Lal Basu
I glanced up and tremors in rapid succession swept through me as the image zoomed in as if in a ghastly scene of a horrific Hitchcock thriller. Reacting to my bewildered countenance the young scientist smiled and uttered in a barely audible polite tone “A dream just a dream.”
I turned aside to peer at the plump happy-go-lucky face. He is in the early thirties, born with silver spoon in his mouth. He must be familiar with the life of the person whose well painted portrait hangs on the wall. Well-read intellectuals are keen on jamming their memories with host of information for its own sake. But he has associated the portrait with his dream and he appeared serious! But why? In this posh apartment the portrait is simply a misfit, better incongruous. He was born long after the turmoil had completely subsided. His rich parents must have ensured a trouble free early life. He was a topper in all exams. The authorities had to struggle hard to win him back from the professor’s job at Harvard. Now he is the topmost research scientist, a coveted job under the government of India. I could not but transgress the border line of etiquette and get down to the impolite remark, “Your dream has been misplaced I suppose”.
“Why?” His painful eyes made me ashamed of my indiscretion.
I replied apologetically, “I did not mind to hurt your feelings. But I am a bit confused. You have been successful in your academic pursuits and now at a well paid highly prestigious job. I suppose your aspirations have all been fulfilled. Still you associate your dreams with this portrait!”
“Oh ho! You too are like others. Are these jobs, the money, the cozy mollycoddle-life everything? I don’t deny that I, like all other academic careerists, aspired for these things. But inner mind hankered and has been hankering after something else.”
“Sorry, I could hardly guess from your outward appearance.”
“Quite natural. But to tell you frankly I am utterly bored, really fed up with all these.”
“Anything personal?” I fumbled.
“Not at all. My wife is an excellent lady. My conjugal life is a happy one.”
“Had you been better in USA?”
“Worse.” The scientist laughed aloud.
Suddenly the fogy tapestry dissolved and the unraveled pious soul marveled me. I looked up once again. The portrait is smiling. He is a dream just a dream and our livings would be meaningless without the dream. I gazed down the window. It has stopped raining. Streaks of golden rays are escaping through the crevices of the swarthy lump of clouds. Silver drops on the magnolia leaves are scintillating to welcome the delayed rays. The small bird, the source of the soothing melodies shrieked and flew for a safe haven to escape my inquisitive glare.
“Oh the weather has become sober. I may have a visit to the Ganges. It’s exquisite from this side of your compound.” I said as if seeking his permission.
“Should I accompany you?”
“Not at all necessary. You’ve important works.”
“O.K. Come back in time to enjoy the lunch.”
“I’ll. Don’t worry.” “Don’t take the short cut. It may be risky after rains.”
I, however, preferred the short cut. The narrow passage through the thick bushes is difficult to move through. The scattered mossy stones may cause a straight fall in moment’s distraction, or the thorny creepers may get at your garments, even bare parts to cause painful wounds. I nevertheless could not help pondering. I could not recollect the name of the laborer. Did I ever ask his name? He had bumped into the rickshaw and fell unconscious. He was dead drunk. The horrible odor made me almost vomit. Even the folded hanky could hardly protect my nostrils. The rickshaw puller knew him. He arranged for another rickshaw.
“Sir pre-pay Ramu and he will take the bugger to his house.”
“No take me to his house.”
“Your bus sir?”
“Hell with it.”
His dwelling place was in a stinking subhuman slum – a small pigeon hole made with bamboo shafts, ropes and tattered polythene shits. He has a son and a daughter. The anemic wife works as maid servant in some houses. She is to manage the family of four with this meager income as the husband offers all his earnings to his god Chullu1. She appeared a bit intelligent and witty too. She asked for some books for his son a student of class VIII. He’s doing well at school and all his teachers appreciate his merit. She places her hopes on him. One day he will get a good job and all their sufferings would end. Her dreamy eyes astonished me. It is dream and dream alone that keeps her alive.
I could ultimately get to the bank. The Tribeni Sangam2 is clearly visible from here. The Ganges is still below, reflecting the scattered trees on the bank. Drops of water from the trees are ringing rhythmically on the dead leaves below. At distance toy boats carrying human dolls are moving hither and thither. The wide expanse like a dream is gradually unfolding at the end of the difficult journey through the thorny bushes. Would all journeys through the thorny paths end up in the dreamy expanse like this? Who knows! My daughter could find out the class VIII books from her bookshelf. I bought a few exercise books. Fortunately I could find Ramu at the rickshaw stand.
“Take me to the house of the laborer I mean the drunkard. Do you remember?” Ramu nodded in assent.
Suddenly he noticed the packet in my hand. “Are these books for the boy? No use.”
I could not decipher anything from the sullen countenance. “Why?”
“Three days after you visited their house the boy was run over by a bus and spot dead.”
Does his mother still dream? She must have some other dreams. The bearded dream portrait shot up to the surface of my mind. He’s smiling. In the forest hideout of Bolivia the CIA toughs had poured their machine guns empty to turn him into a lump of bloody putty. Still they, like all the tormentors, were trembling in horror. They knew well that neither their bullets, nor the thermonuclear claws of their masters could ever kill dream that makes this dreary world worthy to live in.
NOTES
1. Chullu: Very cheap low quality illegally made alcoholic drink, distinguished by its nauseating stench. Generally drunk by poor people in India.
2. Tribeni Sangam: Confluence of three rivers the Ganges, Jamuna and Saraswati near the city of Allahabad, United Province, India, a holy place of pilgrimage for the Hindus.
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