Inception Life

Your Mind is the Scene of the Crime

•  Ever wondered what it feels like remembering each and every dream, as they all come to your subconscious mind just before you wake up?

• Ever wondered what it feels like waking up from a dream, a diary by your bed side and the first thing you do is to pen down the life you lived just before coming into the real world?

• Ever wondered what it feels like being watched over and hounded in your own dreams, sometimes by people you know, other times by strangers, at times by a giant bull and rare times by even loneliness?

• Ever wondered what it feels like being in your own Punjabi wedding, without questioning your orientation, because you don’t have time as it is with a girl who was you cute classmate from school and the friends who push you inside room your fairly good school friends?

• Ever wondered what it feels like waking up from your own dreamy wedding, surrounded with guests you don’t even notice because your eyes are fixed on your foreigner husband-to-be’s eyes and smile and face as he walks down the aisle making you feel blessed like you have never been before?

• Ever wondered what it feels like to be in a dream that is full of absolutely unrealistic combination of your past, present and fictional life, but you don’t question anything and just live that dream like it’s a reality, despite questions continuously popping in your mind about what you doing, saying or being?

My dream from last night sleep may not fit into each and everything but it’s been everything mentioned above. Remembering almost each and every dream, forgetting them if I don’t note them or share them, being chased by legendary creatures in a mix of real and wizard world, getting married to a girl and many years later to a guy and then going back to school like everything requires unlearning and detachment. Detachment especially because I had been taking pride in remembering my dreams without ever deciphering almost all of them, unless they appear in real life or decipher by themselves.

Going back to my today’s dream, this write up will be just a recollection of the entire scene I lived in my dream.

Picture this:

I am on a rickshaw on way to my school. I clearly remember not being alone on rickshaw but just don’t remember noticing who that person was. The rickshaw took the route from Antariksh Apartments, the starting point of my dream. Upon reaching the School’s Main Gate, I get down of it and so does my unknown co-passenger. (Side Note: Most of my 11th and the entire 12th class, I travelled in rickshaw from metro, the latter being my transportation mode to-and-fro school. Antariksh Apartments was where Ramit stayed, the only friend of mine whose house I have overstayed in school.)

Since we were late for school, and it was about to be 8:00 am, he runs off inside the gate as I stay with the rickshaw puller to pay for his service. Strangely the payment mode was having the rickshaw puller sign my passport, which he did with his thumb impression, followed by my own signature under thumb impression. Interestingly, the previous page had a stamp of Bangladesh visa. (Side Note: In 11th, I was once very late to school and not allowed entry inside. It was this side gate I used to plead for entry to my teacher but was refused. I am flustered over the Bangladesh connection, maybe a country I never ever thought that I can or want to visit)

I rush in from the side gate, which was partially closed. Junior class students are standing in queue for the morning PT class, but there was apparently no assembly as I did not feel anything like same. I pace inside the Block A Entry gate; the good old original entry gate to the Block, when the first new building came up during my third standard. (Side Note: I don’t know why I took this route, when in school I always used to take the stage route. Maybe because 3rd class was when my lone life started)

I start climbing the stairs and reach the first floor. As I start climbing to go for the second floor, I see Namrata Mam outside the corner class, next to the Boys Washroom. Nevertheless, Mam was shouting at someone, almost calling out to someone in anger. Here for a moment I thought as to stop and assist her, but I did not and continued going up the stairs. (Side Note: I don’t know why the question never aroused in my mind as to why she was there, because that used to be 4th A in reality.)

But halfway through to second floor, I stop. I stop because I start thinking which class I want to go, only to realize that I am I Class 11, Section A. In that very moment, I actually recall visuals of the class segregation where I was sorted in Section A. (Side Note: Two Days ago, I was sorted in Group A in Tanzeel Sir’s Class at Artist League. Real Life within Dream Life, Interesting!)

Clear with the realization, I climb down the stairs to the first floor. Namrata Mam is no more in the picture. I start pacing along the other side of the corridor, with the belief that 11th A is in Block C and I was at A Block. However, the belief was also that 11th A was on 1st Floor of C Block. (Side Note: Now in reality, 11th A was on C Block Ground Floor, I was actually in 11th C and the class I was rushing to, this moment in dream was actually 9th A, of which I was indeed a student in real life.)

As I reach the last class, 3rd D in real life (I was in 3rd C in real life), I stop from climbing the two-three side stairs for Block B. There was Kunal Gogia, sitting in the corner seat but the seat was strangely placed in between the door. At that moment I realised that the class had students of my age (faces and names not noticed; completely ignored) and students who actually seemed like 3rd class students. It was like one row (weirdly placed row, to be specific) for each kind. This was my 11th A. (Side Note: 3rd Class was the one which actually tortured my existence in life for the first time as I actually started my lost journey with this new class, while 11th A was the class I most visited for friends, with hidden desire that I could have been here had I studied)

I enter the class by crossing Kunal, and notice that there were rows of tables and chairs charted inside, with the small kids completely silent, almost mannequin-like, facing the wall. And my 11th class mates were sitting like we used to during the Diwali party, with tables placed along the back side wall and everyone sitting in the outside row and not inside, for a free movement. (Side Note: I only remember Diwali party of 8th class, and we did place tables and chairs like this side-to-side manner. I masturbated for the first time in 8th class and had the worst and most confused and egoistic leadership experience in this Grade only)

I take a seat next to Ankita Dhingra because she gave me the biggest smile on my entry; a smile so big that I did not notice if there was any other reaction – like she was bright like the Sun in the sky full of stars. But before seating, I kept my bag, a sling one, on the top shelf in the starting, next to the windows. (Side Note: Ankita was the only face I survived every time when I used to enter my 9th A, everyone else used to feel like they wanted to eat the flesh out of me. I love sling bags but was never able to carry one, till I revolted in college life. But lost my very first sling bag, the one I have most loved, in Amritsar, along with my favorite novels and about ₹ 5000 cash.)

As I get seated, the teacher is asking everyone what they want to be in future. I don’t know if it was Kunal, I don’t know why I need to mention Kunal here, but teacher replied to someone’s answer with, “Of course Engineer, because you family is of an Engineer”. (Side Note: Kunal is not an engineer, nor anyone in his family, but he once told me in 11th, I believe, that he will move in Business because he is from a Business family. And moved into business in12th only, missing school every Saturday).

Strangely, next to answer the teacher (still unknown in face or voice), was someone named Babbar. And Ankita was loudly cheering for him. I think I did not seem to care much for the person or why he was being cheered but I can only recall him as someone bearded and with a very nice smile. But it was a fleeting notice, like I occupied with myself. (Side Note: I remember Ankita always being the cheerful and ever-encouraging positive soul for everyone. I know only one Babbar, from my initial coming out days, in Jaipur. He has a strong smile and a bearded personality and was the most clear one on his career, unlike Ralli or Harita. His clarity was exactly that – clarity, and cannot be termed practical or heartless)

I, however, was trying to ‘psst’ someone to hand me my bag as I wanted my passport for my reply. It was like my passport was imperative for my answer. The teacher table was on the side, with the switch board, and very strangely arranged.

And I wake up!

Picture Review:

It feels like Inception for a change in the present, through the writing mode of Deception. My dream can only be the projection of my own subconscious mind, and that is someone no one can control. But who is the dreamer here - the architect. Or can I be both the person trapped in my subconscious mind and a dreamer who is trying to be the architect of his life.

As an architect, I have to be careful while changing the physics of my life. I have to create something new. I can use detail, like an a struggle someone endured or the silence someone else maintained, but I cannot and must not create a future from memories. Otherwise I will easily lose grasp of what is real and what is dream. And my presence will take a foreign nature and I will be attacked.

I know I have lost that grasp my times, but not anymore. I know I have been attacked many times, but not anymore. Just like Cob, I will fight back.