The Ridiculous Dream of a Fantastic Man

The Ridiculous Dream of a Fantastic Man

            Dear reader, the title of this series seems to be fashioned after Dostoevsky's short story, but it isn't Dostoevskian. Rather, it is absolutely Rabelaisian and grotesquely realistic. The term ‘fantastic’ in the title also cannot be associated with the themes of magic or fantasy. It is ‘absolutely’ realistic by nature. In the present age, it is hard to find a single man who has the ability to think. That is why I call him a fantastic man. The dreamer in this narrative is indeed a fantastic man, in my conjecture. All his struggles and combats are for his one qualifying criterion: a fantastic thinker. He is the man who thinks; therefore, he is. However, time, place, people, and things in this series are all fictional. It is like Vetrimaaran taking advantage of transferring the crude real into fiction by the one disclaimer at the onset of the film, ‘fictional.’ The trailer of his upcoming movie begins like a meta film, filming the real within the film, where the hero asks the director in bawdy language—sir, don't forget to put that “**”—to project the ‘disclaimer’ without fail. The same “**” disclaimer: we present it at the genesis of this first-person narrative.

            Early in the morning, around 4:30 a.m., a severe headache started gnawing the nerves in my head. At first, I thought that it was a pain of its own source, a stand-alone ailment in the body. Only at 11 a.m. could I figure out the reason for it. It was not natural in its singularity but curtailed with something else. Of course, the previous day's sumptuous hunt on chicken biryani was one of the reasons. But biryani was responsible only at the least level. Entirely, it cannot be blamed. The headache  was the repercussion of something else. We can easily predict the duration of the ache by the very nature of its quality. It is varied in its kind according to the source of ailment. Some may last for an hour, some for a day, and some for an unending eternity. I knew very well that the ache would stay for a while and quickly pass away. I was very sure that a cup of coffee could solve the entire problem. It happened exactly as I conjured.

            A few sips from the cup gave great relief to the nerves. My mind became clear like a blue sky freed from shrouded clouds. Slowly, the reason for the ache was also nakedly visible. It was all because of one terrifying dream. Actually, when I woke up, there was no trace of it in my memory. How could I totally forget that loathsome dream so quickly! I am not sure when it haunted my sleep. It should have been somewhere at midnight. Slowly, the play-like dream started recasting in my recollection the entire scene of it. I saw vividly that I was in Dr. Az:h’s chamber—Pandemonium—discussing something so intensely. We two were all alone in that room. A nest-like one perched by many. As per the intensity of the dream, I could say that the discussion was not reaching the climax but its peripeteia, not knowing the danger that lurks in its reversal. All my discussions with him were done in a rendezvous not spotted by anyone. We were very particular that it shouldn't be overheard by anyone, especially by the one who claimed to be the owner of my thoughts. But this discussion—dramatized in my dream—was barely laid open to the assault from the enemy ambushed somewhere near. Till now, this is a mystery to me: how could one claim/usurp ownership of the idea that profused from two discursive minds?

            But the recoiling enemy ambushed somewhere on the tree was eavesdropping on our discussion. It is always obnoxious to my intellectual discussions with Az:h. Even when I am at his house, steering my ferry—deep thought—into the stream of discussion, the reptile rattles its tail from the distant desert through the smartphone. Discussion with Az:h would vary from space to space. The discussion we have in his Pandemonium may not be the same in the tea shop or at his home. The best of mine was through the local train from Fort Station to Sanatorium. In classrooms, he is totally different—a wizard creating spells of illusions, bringing writers from the past into the classroom space with theatrical effect. But the creepy one is always jealous of his acumen and had an itching desire to nip it in the bud. Intellectually, Az:h had the daring personality of an anarchist. He could face any grotesque monsters with their hideous threats and their self-assumed authority, but the very presence of this creep always shudders him to the core. Consequently, the fear would redouble in me of its effect. That Van Gogh’s painting of howling on the bridge is the only possible means to explain it.

            The present heinous dream is the reflection of some incident from the past, which I have not overcome completely. The unfulfilled wish-like fear has once again haunted me now. That hideous scene is so vivid now in my memory even after the dream had dissolved in oblivion. But the fear had numbed my senses for three hours. Deep sleep might have transported my present into that exact past. I resume the dream again: I was in Az:h’s room for some important discussions. It must have been regarding my thesis topic, realism. Our plan was to discuss it quickly and pretend nothing had happened before once it was over. All of a sudden, we heard a sound that slithered in quietly and said, "Hi, Arul." Yes, the voice of the one who claims to be the rightful owner of my thoughts. Fear of the past and the rage of the present subsumed the ridiculous dreamer in the timelessness of his dream. Not even looking at its face, I left the room indignantly as a token of disrespect to the creep.

            The dream felt so dramatic that it surpassed the real. I felt that it would stop there in the room itself and continued to pose that innocent look to Az:h, saying, "Why is he doing this like this?" Usually, it wouldn't care for anyone or anything or any emotional state of others. Let the earth tremble and the sky fall down, and the Bay of Bengal near the campus wash off the entire arena with its tsunami—let him alone stand unaffected. This time, it was not like that. Maybe because dreams are wish fulfillments, making things impossible into possible. Something happened contrary to its usual nonchalant character. It started running after me desperately—something unusual—calling out my name. Fear and rage propelled my steps into a swift run. I ran through the steps from the third floor of the centenary building and increased my speed towards the PWD campus. Then a few scholars—who seemed very young and unfamiliar—got hold of me and started urging me to return to the Pandemonium. Despite much of their talk, only fear and hatred were the responses that were laid at the bottom of my unforgiving heart. The terrific dream-cum-drama ended with a sudden awakening from that sleep. It must have been around two or three o'clock. Restlessly, I tried to regain deep sleep once again. But the headache alone left in my nerves a trace of a monstrous dream.