Once Upon a Star

The all too brief time that I spent living in New York City was in many ways life altering for me. This was the city that I always wanted to have as a part of my unwritten biography. Even though I may not have stayed very long in The Big Apple, my time there was significant, largely due to the people that I came across. The Wall Street crowd, that I saw some but not too much of, worked their days and nights with the sole purpose of making excessive amounts of money. When you looked into their eyes, you could almost see dollar signs. This post however, is not about them. 

It was really the others who were of greater interest to me. The artists, the actors, the dancers, musicians, writers, comedians etc. Some of that abundant talent would make it to the Lincoln Center, Broadway or a hip bar in The Village, while many would perform at parks, subway stations and other public places, reaching out to a larger audience, making a lot of folks happy, most waiting to be discovered and some who were satisfied doing just that. This post is about one of those performing artists that I know absolutely nothing about.

A lady, who I’m guessing was in her mid to late eighties, lived in an apartment building close to mine on the Upper West Side. Small in stature, possibly having shrunk a few inches over the years, her companion was one of those pocket sized dogs that she’d have on a tacky jeweled leash while holding a walking stick in her other hand. 

The thing that always struck me was how even on a bustling Manhattan sidewalk, there was no way you could miss her. Although she probably had no specific place to go to, each time she stepped out of her apartment she looked like a million bucks. Not a single strand of auburn brown hair out of place, her face a little theatrically painted, always in the sharpest of outfits with shoes and a purse that looked expensive. I had seen her getting into the neighborhood Thrift Store a few times, so even though she may not have spent much money, she certainly knew how to put herself together. 

I usually made it a point to go up to her and say hello. After a few times, she began recognizing me and I’d get rewarded with a smile. There was this one time when she looked especially sharp in a black turtleneck, black pants, a shocking pink blazer, matching shoes and a glittery black bag. It was a sunny day and her eyes were covered with fashionable sunglasses. When I made a comment that she looked like a movie star, she giggled. Her speech was a little incoherent but I’m pretty sure she told me that she used to be an actress. 

We never exchanged many words during the time that I lived there. It was her presence that always fascinated me. How even in her twilight years, she continued to be a star. I wondered if she was a leading lady in the grand old days, when people would dress up to go to the theater. I could picture her in a shiny gown, cigarette in hand, signing autographs and having her picture taken. Or was she a struggling actor who couldn’t make it past the bit parts, but still performed on stage every night? 

A couple of weeks before I left New York, I followed her into a diner where she would always go for her mid-morning coffee. The diner was in the same block as my apartment and I myself was fairly regular there, usually for a beverage and sometimes a slice of pie. The owner, Mike and one of the servers, Ralph, knew me by name and were also aware that I was heading back to India soon. 

I walked over to the next table in the same line as hers, facing her back. Upon entering the diner, I had told Mike that I would be paying for the lady’s order. It was the only way I could think of establishing some sort of connection with her. She ordered a coffee and along with it Ralph brought her a slice of peach cobbler that he knew was her favorite. When she protested that she hadn’t asked for it, he said that it was compliments of the gentleman sitting behind her, who happened to be a fan. She turned around to look at me and with those lips painted bright red, gave me the biggest smile I had seen coming from her. 

At that hour of the morning, the diner was mostly empty - Ralph brought over my coffee and sat down across for me. 

“That was a nice thing you did,” he said. “I can see how special you made her feel.”

It was an emotional time for me. While I knew that my fling with the city had come to an end, I was in so many ways not ready to let go of it. In fact I was clinging on to everything I could, making new memories and savoring old ones in the little time that I had left. That lady had been a part of my New York adventure, brought a smile to my face several times without her even knowing it and all I was doing in return was buying her coffee. On my way out I asked Mike if he knew her name. 

That was the last time I saw Evelyn. 

The next year when I went back for a two month visit to New York, the economy was in shambles and I was shocked to see that the diner had shut down. I had specifically gotten there at 10:30 am, the time that Evelyn would usually drink her coffee. Where could she possibly be now? I waited around for a while, expecting that she would walk by and show me a glimmer of recognition. 

I continued to wait at the corner of 75th Street and Columbus Avenue, which is where I would see her most often, hoping I’d get a glimpse of the star making a special appearance just for me.

Corner of 75th Street and Columbus Avenue (Picture Google Maps)

When Sharing isn't Caring - A Facebook Story

It isn’t that old, but I’m going to reminisce about the good old days of Facebook, when there was no Share button. Yes my Facebook child, I’ve seen those days and they were pretty wonderful. 

The Share button basically is how we used to get spammed with Forward’s on email. I’m sure every one of you remembers those. Wake up each morning to a bunch of emails with jokes, inspirational quotes, why bananas and cucumbers are good for you, why you shouldn’t drink Coke (it’s always Coke and never Pepsi), 10 exercises that will give you 6 pack abs, 15 places to see in Bolivia, 20 ways to avoid getting diarrhea ... you get the gist. Basically those emails that you never read are now ‘shares’ on Facebook and even if I scan past them, I sort of know what they are about.

So now you have a picture of a girl who wants 10,000 shares and 1 million likes for her father who has cancer. How is that helping in treating the disease? And if I don’t share or like the picture, will her father get sicker? 

You have the person who shares a picture saying that if you have a parent/sibling/child/nephew/niece/neighbour’s dog that you love, you should let the world know. If I don’t share it, does it mean that I don’t love my neighbour’s dog? 

The vegetarian who tells you how awful you are because you’re eating meat. Yes I’m aware that a couple of days every week I turn into a monster.

The vegan who tells you that being vegetarian isn’t enough. Stop consuming dairy. Oh wait, I’m a monster every single day of my miserable existence.

The organic eater who tells me that I’m going to die. I already know that I’m going to die. Does this mean that I’m going to organic hell? 

The Inspirational Quote post-er(s), who tells me that I should be nice all the time (because being nice doesn’t mean I’m weak), forgive everyone I know, that I should be outside jumping in puddles while it’s raining, make others happy (because that in turn will make me happy and of course it’s eventually all about me), blah blah blah. Yeah I get it. I haven’t lost my memory that I need to be reminded every single day. 

The one(s) who are constantly saying that they are going to do whatever the hell they want regardless of what anyone else thinks. Do it, don’t post it. 

And then the one’s who change their diets based upon the latest studies. And want you to do the same. Eating carbs makes you fat (no carbs for me). Not eating carbs makes you forgetful (oops I forgot to eat my carbs). I just ate a giant chocolate chunk cookie and you just ruined it for me by telling me for the millionth time how bad sugar is for me. Meanwhile, let me drink some red wine so I can bring down my blood pressure. 

Let me not forget the ‘remedies’. How some fruit in South America cures cancer but the pharmaceutical companies don’t want you to know. If you catch a cold because you were dancing in the rain (hey the inspirational quote said that I should), then here’s a list of foods that will help you get rid of it. I honestly hate those trips to the grocery store.

And what’s the deal with ‘posting for an hour’. You know the ones that go ‘please post this on your timeline if you or someone you know has been bit by a mosquito anytime in your life etc etc’. And how they give you specific instructions to not ‘share’ but ‘copy and paste’. What the heck is that all about? If I don’t post it, will I get bit by a mosquito? If I share it instead of copy/pasting it, will I get malaria?

Let me not forget the spouses who wish each other a happy anniversary on Facebook. And to make it worse, share each other’s posts. He/she is sitting right in front of you and just because you’re seeking attention, I am going to ignore your post. I'm trying really hard to be nice but you're not helping. 

And all those pages that friends and friends of friends and family and family of friends create on Facebook that I feel compelled to Like. It’s just so complicated. 

While I’m a fairly regular Facebook user (half hour in the morning and evening), I get this feeling that I’m not going to last too much longer. I miss those days when people’s statuses would be about themselves. Even if it was stupid or mundane (because everyone can’t be clever and funny), it still made me feel like I was in touch with the person for a moment in my day. 

Can we start a campaign to get rid of the ‘Share’ button on Facebook?

The Big Snore

Let me start off by saying that I have slept with more people than most people I know. Before you begin to raise your eyebrows and go ‘hmmm’, the keyword here is ‘slept’ and for the purposes of this post, no more than that. Which makes me wonder when it was that ‘sleeping’ with someone began to mean ‘having sex’. But that’s a topic for another day.  

Recently I travelled to Ladakh with a friend whose name begins with the letter ’N’. Our first night was spent at the Ibis Airport Hotel in New Delhi since we had a ridiculously early morning flight to catch. A few minutes after we went to bed, our room began to shake with N’s snoring. For those of you that haven’t stayed at an Ibis, they have small, efficient, capsule like rooms which allow snoring sounds to bounce off of every close wall. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep for a moment the entire night and just to get back at N, I woke up at 2:30 am, turned on the lights, banged on doors and took a shower. Yeah dude, I’m going to punish you by being clean early in the morning.  

The next night wasn’t much better, after which I decided that if I didn’t get my own room and a proper night’s sleep, N would probably not make it out of Ladakh alive.

Save your sympathies for now because I’ve been on the other side, driving my sleeping partner crazy. Eight of us had once gone to Dehradun, where we were staying in a fabulously charming bungalow with enormous bedrooms, 4 poster beds, sunken baths, definitely one of the warmest and most tastefully done up places I have ever stayed at. There were 4 bedrooms with 2 of us sharing each one. The first night apparently went off okay because my roomie didn’t complain. The next two nights however, my snoring was so loud that he had to sleep on a daybed in one of the other bedrooms. Which actually worked out pretty nicely for me as I could spread myself across that king size piece of antique. 

The funniest snoring story though brings me to when I was living in Chicago and was driving to the Smokey Mountains with my friends Mike and Elsa. We began our journey at around 8 pm with the idea that we would drive for a few hours, spend the night at a hotel and continue on in the morning. Except that when we were ready to call it a night, there were no rooms available at any of the hotels we were stopping at. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, there weren’t a lot of hotels to choose from in the first place and apparently a movie was being shot so for miles and miles everything was booked.

Finally at about 4 am we got to a Howard Johnson and the three of us, tired but still nutty and goofy, got off our car in our sunglasses (don’t ask) and walked over to the reception desk. Elsa was in the middle with her arms around Mike and I. She looked at the lady at the front desk and asked in her most serious tone, “honey, do you have a room we could use for a couple of hours?”

Of course the 3 of us burst out laughing and at that unearthly hour, our laughter sounded really, really loud. Anyway, a few minutes later we got ourselves a room, Mike had brought a sleeping bag and Elsa and I got the bed. I don’t remember how long we had slept but all of a sudden every light in the room had been turned on and Mike was standing at the foot of our bed going, “would you guys just knock it off with your snoring?”

How exactly does one do that since a sleeping person has no idea that he/she is creating havoc? 

The good news is that the last few people I have slept with during my travels have not complained about my snoring keeping them up. It’s probably because I now have a relaxed life and get (more than) adequate sleep. So if at some point you’re thinking of sleeping with me, it’s pretty likely that you won’t be disturbed. 

Oh and by the way, how many people have you slept with?

Airport Lounging (Or Flight Delays)

When the girl at the check-in counter looked at my reservation and picked up the phone to make a call, I figured that something must be the matter. A couple of minutes later I asked if there was a problem.

“You’re flight’s been cancelled, sir,” she replied, looking more distraught than me. “We are working on putting you on another flight.”

“Great,” I said, not particularly happy but taking it in my stride. I’ve had more than my share of delayed and cancelled flights thanks to winter storms when I lived in the US. There was this one time my flight from Louisville to New York got cancelled and the next morning I was on a plane, with a stopover at Philadelphia. The funny thing is that I was supposed to be in Philly that evening for a party at my cousin’s. It took some effort but the airline finally agreed to let me get off at Philly and even though I had to make a stop at Banana Republic to buy clothes for the party, the cancellation absolutely worked in my favor. 

The next flight was 3 hours after my original one so I had about 4 hours to kill at the airport. I went and sat down at one of the seating areas, picking a row that was quiet so I could read my book. That lasted all of one minute as two couples decided that they liked the same row as me. I’m not against chatter - people traveling together of course will indulge in conversation. After a while though my attempts at ignoring them and reading the same sentence multiple times while listening to their plans of eating garlic butter prawns at The Taj in Goa (amongst other things), I decided to move a little further away. 

Fifteen minutes and one chapter later, I got bombarded with a loud phone talker. From his conversations I learnt that his wife was in Singapore attending a conference, he was on a flight to Mumbai and how his investments were doing in the stock market (amongst other things). Wearing a white shirt that was way too small for his flabby body, I wondered if his buttons might pop before he reached his destination. Most definitely not a sight for sore eyes and his conversations too loud and uninteresting, I figured that it was time to find myself a new location.

A restroom and water cooler stop later, coffee is what my brain suggested. 

“Black with some milk and sugar on the side,” I placed my order. 

Barely a minute had passed and the foursome were back. 

“I’ll have a green tea,” said the loudest one to nobody in particular and everybody around her.

The other lady didn’t want anything.

“You don’t want a green tea? Have a green tea,”. 

But the other one stood her ground and didn’t want green tea, which didn’t stop the first woman from rattling off the benefits of green tea and how she drinks a cup every morning and evening and has pretty much stopped drinking regular tea.”

Both couples actually seemed really nice and we had exchanged smiles and pleasantries a few times, so I don’t want to give the wrong impression here. It’s just that I couldn’t read with them around so I decided to give up on my book for a while. I posted something on Facebook about how hanging out at airports was inspiration for writing, spoke to a script writer friend on the phone who kept encouraging me to start my novel or script or whatever it is that’s been in my head for a while. 

“Once I’m done with this script, I’m going to travel like you,” she said.

“And once I’m done traveling, I’m going to write a script like you,” I replied and we both laughed.

“Just go to Goa and write,” she said sternly. “Mumbai Mantra is looking for story ideas. Do a synopsis and submit yours. I’m positive it will get accepted.”

If only I had as much faith in myself. And if only I could stop procrastinating.

After a disappointing hunt for a masala dosa, I had to settle for a less than mediocre plate of pav bhaji for lunch. Being used to consistently crappy food at airports across the world, I knew that Goa would more than make up for one bad meal. 

An hour later my flight was ready for boarding and in 55 minutes we had arrived at our destination. The last few minutes prior to landing, I looked down at the monsoon bathed, lush green views, the expanse of the Arabian Sea and I knew that a 4 hour wait at the airport was a small price to pay for what the next few days had in store for me.

Cavellosim Beach in Goa

Almost Disconnected

A little story from my recent trip to Ladakh ...

Our driver, Tashi, who we thought should be a model instead

We said our temporary goodbye’s to Tashi, our 27 year old, lean and tall driver, who dropped us off at the home-stay in Likhir and drove away. The plan was that he would pick us up from the same village in 2 days, after we were done with our trek and take us back to Leh, where we would spend the night and head out to Nubra Valley the next morning. 

Except that the original plan of us trekking to Yangthang, spending the night at a home-stay and then doing the same route back the day after, didn’t make sense any longer. Our guide, Norbu rightly suggested that instead we should trek to Hemis on the second day, a different trail which will make the walk more interesting, and get picked up from there. 

The challenge at this point was to inform Tashi of our change in plans. With no connectivity in Likhir our only hope was that Yangthang would be more cellular friendly. 

Our super warm hosts in Likhir

After a breakfast of Khambir, which is a Ladakhi bread, freshly made by our host, spread generously with butter and jam, we were all set for our 5 hour mountain trek. Tashi teased us about it being a ‘baby trek’ and watching Norbu, it felt like he was taking a stroll in the park. On the other hand Naresh, my friend, and I were huffing and puffing within no time, the thin mountain air at about 11,000 feet not helping and the climbs starting to feel like we were reaching for Mount Everest. 

Took only a couple of pictures during the trek
when we were in flat lands

“I have to go back and get fitter,” was a thought I had many, many times. After a particularly long ascend of about 40 minutes, with a couple of stops on the way, we reached a point where we simply had to take a longer break. The place was scenic, just like most places in Ladakh are, and as I sat myself down on a large rock, unstrapped my water bottle and reached out to get a packet of biscuits, I heard a series of familiar tones. At that exact spot, in the middle of nowhere, not a soul or a home in sight, our phones had found a way to connect us to the world! 

As I took the phone out of my pocket, there were Sms notifications, Whatsapp messages, Facebook comment notifications and a couple of missed calls. 

“Let’s call Tashi!” I said excitedly. 

A couple of minutes later we had informed him about our change in plans and life was good once again. Temporarily, as a few minutes later we were back to our disconnected status. Except that it didn’t matter any longer. Who needs a phone when you have the mountains for company?

The joy of connectivity when you really need it

Yangthang, a very pretty village, with a stream running across it, sparsely populated and greener than anyplace we had been to so far, was exactly what we needed. Our rooms, situated on the rooftop, had large windows and comfortable beds. At one corner of the roof was a mobile phone hanging from a bamboo pole. We found out later that it was the only spot where they were sometimes able to get a phone signal! ‘Rarely’ is probably a more appropriate word than ‘sometimes’ because the entire time that we were in the village, there were no bars on that phone and Norbu found out later that, just like Likhir, there was no way to call from Yangthang either.

Fields of green and yellow at Yangthang

So in a nutshell, if we hadn’t stopped at that exact spot to catch our breath, there would have been no way to inform Tashi of our change in plans. In which case, we would have had to trek back to Likhir instead of Hemis. In which case I would have no story to write about. In which case you and I wouldn’t be connected at this very moment. 

Hypothetically Speaking

Just think if we were all the same.

Pick a color of choice and all of us would be that shade. 

Same height, same weight, same hair color. We would all speak one language and there would only be one accent. 

Each one of us would belong to the same religion or better still, there would be no religion. Every person would have equally good education. Every job would pay the same amount of money so we would live in similar homes, drive the same kind of car, eat the same food and wear clothes that looked the same. 

No classes of travel and hotels. 

There would be no distinguishing features, everyone would have perfect vision and a full head of hair. 

Nobody would look old, they would just die at a certain age. 

So if there was no religion to cause a drift, no color to distinguish, no fat or skinny people to make fun of, nobody with glasses that kids would tease, nobody stronger or weaker, there would be no rich feeling superior, no poor feeling cheated, words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘handsome’ would have no meaning, nobody was less or more intelligent, no accents to make fun of, no language that was more popular, no country that was richer or poorer, or actually there were no countries and everyone could live wherever they chose to. 

If everyone was the same and there was no reason to compare ourselves to anyone causing emotions such as jealousy, would we all live in harmony? Or would hate still sneak into our lives?

There's a Doctor in the House

Recently someone sent me a message on Whatsapp that said: 

“When you’re dead, you don’t know that you’re dead. It’s only difficult for the others.

The same is true when you’re stupid.”

In my case my stupidity mostly affects me. Or so I think. For example a few months ago I drank excessive amounts of tequila in spite of knowing that tequila completely messes me up. Whenever I drink too much of it, my brain and body begin acting independently with results that are always embarrassing. This time too I lost control, fell down, hit the footboard of a bed and bruised my ribs. 

Example 2. I know I have a weak back from a spinal injury I had several years ago. I know that every time I do the things that the doctor has forbidden me from doing for the rest of my life, I have ended up hurting my back and spent a week or two in bed recovering from my foolishness. But do I learn my lesson? Of course not. 

So here I am, once again in a horizontal position since Saturday night waiting to get better. Really Ratan, is it so important to lift weights at the gym? If I could punch myself really hard I would. 

On Sunday morning my sister came over and insisted that we go see a doctor. Just like any concerned sister would do. Except that I couldn’t possibly go through the motions of getting dressed, walking to the car, driving to the doctor’s and waiting at his office. So I suggested that we go after a couple of days when the pain was a little more manageable. She wasn’t happy about it but gave in to my wishes. 

Later when we spoke on the phone, she once again reiterated that we had to go over to the doctor’s office as soon as I was able to. Knowing fully well how much I hate going to a medical establishment, this was her way of preparing me for it. 

The same evening, at about 7 pm my phone rang. I’m going to refer to the person calling as a friend although we were more of acquaintances. We had met maybe 3 or 4 times at social gatherings with occasional interactions via text messages. 

“I’m at the Forum mall and I know you live close by,” he said. “Thought I’d drop by for a few minutes if you’re free.”

While I was as ‘free’ as I could be, staring at the ceiling fan and bored out of my mind, I really wasn’t in the mood for visitors who I didn’t know very well. So I explained my situation to him and told him that maybe now was not the best time. 

“In that case I insist on coming over,” he said and asked for exact directions to my place. 

And that’s when it struck me that my ‘acquaintance’ who I’ve now upgraded to a ‘friend’ status was a doctor. If I wasn’t going over to the doctor’s office then I guess the doctor was coming over to see me at home! A few minutes later he showed up at my apartment, checked my back, confirmed that I was already doing the right things to get well (rest, heating pad, muscle relaxant, been-there-done-that) and prescribed a pill that would help loosen up my lower back muscles. After he left I felt about 50% better, which is the effect a good doctor should have on you.

He also sternly told me that I had to stay away from lifting weights for the rest of my life. Which I promised to do.  

“I’m traveling on the 9th,” he said before leaving. “I’ll come and check on you before that.”

For the longest time I couldn’t get over the randomness of a visit from a doctor acquaintance, who had never dropped by to my place earlier, at the exact time that I needed a medical expert around. What do you call something like this? A coincidence? I don’t think so. It’s got to be something more than that. Whatever such incidents may be called, I’m glad that they take place in our lives and help us believe in little miracles. 

Hopefully I've learnt my lesson, which is not to say that from here on I'll never do something that doesn't make sense. Maybe the next time he drops by, I'll ask my doctor buddy if he can also prescribe something for my stupidity.

The Dream Team

Dreams, when we remember them in a wakeful state, can be so fascinating. I mostly sleep peacefully through the night and rarely remember the dreams that I had. Even if I do, as the day progresses, it becomes harder to recollect them. And then there are some dreams that stay with me for a long time and are almost hard to forget. I had one such dream on Tuesday night. 

Tuesday began as an ordinary day with me spending a part of my morning at the gym. I had a dinner invitation at one of my much-loved Japanese restaurants, Harima, after which an auto-rickshaw drove me home. Before turning in for the night, I watched an episode of ‘Marvel Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D’, making it a pretty average day of my life. My night, on the other hand, was anything but average.

My sister, Sujata, and I were in Delhi to attend a wedding. We were staying in an apartment in South Delhi and strangely, it was just the two of us. The building was on a mostly deserted street and as we walked around, we came across this interesting looking home. It was almost like a large suburban American home, quite a misfit amongst all the other high-rises and our curiosity made us want to peek inside. 

As we began nosily looking inside the partial glass door, a tall, sophisticated looking man appeared, introduced himself as the owner and invited us inside. Without any hesitation we went in and began exploring the house, which literally seemed endless. Every room led to another, each one right out of a fantasy movie or a fairy tale. It’s hard for me to describe any of the rooms as I can’t recollect the details but I do remember them being extraordinary. After going through many of the rooms we reached an enormous courtyard, in the middle of which was a crystal clear pond. There were birds everywhere and I rattled off their names, much to the surprise of my sister. 

There was a little park with a bench and as we sat down, from out of nowhere appeared a waiter dressed in an old-school uniform with a tray full of tea and goodies. Between conversations we found out that our host was a big shot designer.

The house continued on across from the courtyard and that section was like a marketplace. There were little stores selling everything from shawls to shoes. This area was packed with shoppers and as we walked around, we ran into our sister, Rajni. We were unsurprised to see each other and talked about meeting at the wedding. 

During the course of this night, I would keep waking up, which is extremely unusual for me. And strangely enough as I would drift back into sleep, the same dream would continue. 

It was the day of the wedding and Sujata and I were back at the now minuscule apartment. She suggested to me that I go over to the designer guy’s home to take a shower and get dressed, which seemed like a completely normal thing to do. 

The front door was open and I walked in without a second thought. I was back in that magical home, which now seemed much darker and creepier. Not in a cheesy horror movie kind of way but as a place that definitely could not be described as cheerful. There was not a soul to be seen and as I walked through a number of rooms, I could find no sign of a bathroom. I entered a large, dimly lit library with floor to ceiling mahogany bookshelves along all four walls. The rest of the room, however was set up like a restaurant with 4-seater tables, place settings and a centerpiece. 

Along one of the walls was the bathroom door that I walked into with a sense of familiarity.  It was a massive bathroom but there was no toilet and in one corner was a small shower stall. The rest of it was a largely open space with scattered plush seating. The far end wall was all glass, looking out into a view of Manhattan, the Flatiron building directly in my line of vision. It was starting to get dark and as the lights began coming on in the apartments, I could see silhouettes of it’s residents. I sat myself down on a couch and voyeuristically began watching these people who I could now see clearly, as if they were just a few feet away. 

At some point I decided to take the shower that I was there for and get dressed. As I got into the shower stall, the library lights went on and there were people seated at every table. Not just that, there were guests in the bathroom area dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns, holding a glass of wine. There was classical music playing in the background and a vibrant cocktail party was in progress. All the bathroom walls had turned into glass but everyone was clearly oblivious of me. 

All of a sudden I looked up and noticed that the shower had turned into a large chimney with circus performers coming down it. As each one would come down and enter my shower area, they would open the door and go outside. I found myself dressed but however hard I tried, I couldn’t get myself outside the door. It was getting increasingly frustrating being trapped and even worse, everything began happening in slow motion. Close to tears, I didn’t know what to do and how to get away. “If this is a dream, let me wake up now,” I thought.

It was of course a dream and I opened my eyes feeling both exhausted and relieved at the same time. Although it was 8:30 in the morning I felt unrested, wanting to sleep for a little while longer, which I would end up doing for a few seconds. But then I would make a conscious effort and wake myself up, afraid that I would plunge into the same dream. For a while I lay in bed, thinking about my night, going through the pieces that I could remember vividly, not wanting to forget. 

It’s remarkable how our subconscious works when we are not awake. And the imagination that we are capable of having. How a dream team puts disparate pieces of our lives together, throws in something we’ve probably only read/seen/heard about and comes up with a production merely for the purpose of entertaining us while we are asleep.