Skip to main content

Book of Dreams


“It’s very dark. I get up in the middle of the night to go the washroom. And there she comes, the witch. She lunges toward me and tries to grab me…I am scared, and I wake up.” Roshan recounts this nightmare to me.

“You always dream about witches, why?” I ask him.

“No, sometimes there are good dreams too. Of chocolates and Benten.”

“But Roshan, how do you dream?”

He looks at me questioningly.

“Look, you have such small eyes, how do all these witches and Bentens fit into them?” I am in a poking, probing mood.

Roshan thinks for a moment and comes up with, “Well, they become really really small and fit into my eyes.”

“And who makes them this small?” I poke him further.

“God, of course.”

 “I don’t think God has so much time to weave dreams for all you kids every night. You see, there are many other important things that He has to manage.”

He ponders. After a while his eyes brighten up with the light of revelation and he says, “God has asked somebody to collect all these dreams. And now He has a big book of dreams in which all these dreams are written and illustrated. When I sleep, God opens the page of dreams which He wants me to see. It’s simple.”

Roshan looks jubilant. He has sorted out one of the major mysteries of life.

“And how does God decide on which dream to make you see.” I ask.

Here Roshans’s response is prompt and well-thought-out, “When I am good and listen to amma, God makes me see dreams of Benten and chocolates. But when I am bad, I see witches.”

“And you mostly dream of witches.” I smile.

He gives a mischievous smile. “Yes, I am usually bad.”

So this is how and why we dream. Freud was wrong all along.

The book of dreams…sounds fascinating to me. If I could only have that book and change the face of some of my dreams!
Labels:

Comments

  1. Abdul1 April 2012 at 21:06

    If you find this book please do let me know!

    ReplyDelete
  2. naureen amjad2 April 2012 at 01:42

    Sure...will ask Roshan to help

    ReplyDelete
  3. Natasha18 April 2012 at 18:10

    Love the interpretation, need to write a book for kids with this wise little Roshan to throw some light..........

    ReplyDelete
  4. naureen amjad22 April 2012 at 01:37

    Roshan is full of stories and nuggets of wisdom...would love to help

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How Selfishia got Rid of Her Feathery Moustache

Selfihsia the selfish hen was unhappy. And understandably so. After all, having a feathery moustache is not the same thing as having a new hairdo or a brand new dress from a well-known boutique. She couldn’t flaunt it.     It didn’t make her feel beautiful. It didn’t even make her feel like an ordinary hen with a few feathers missing. She felt feathery at the wrong places and this made her sad. One day when she was crying and looking at her reflection in the puddle of water near the grapefruit tree, Kayseria strutted toward her. “Selfhisha, I have clucked at the thought and have finally come up with a solution,” she said. All the hens had been thinking about Selfishia’s moustache for a while now. There had been five meetings under the grape fruit tree to get Selfishia out of her predicament. “Really!” Selfisha clucked loudly with hope. Hearing Selfishia’s loud cluck the others came trotting and gathered around her. When the cluck cluck of excitement settled
7 comments
Read more

Napoleon and His Family in the Land of Lilliputians

As Napoleon the rooster traveled in the white Suzuki pickup van that was taking him to the Land of Lilliputians, he wondered. Yesterday, he along with the five hens who now cackled in the van were put in a separate basket.  They were sold to the Lilliputians. Napoleon looked at the five hens who were now under his guardianship. “What a diversified lot,” he thought. Somebody cackled in soft purring tones. He knew it must be Chandni , the eldest, the prettiest of the hens. She was snowy white with black dots.  Yes, there she was, sitting snugly near the window; oblivious to the world around her except the warm egg which she had just laid. Chandni was good at it: laying eggs day after day. “The ever maternal Chandni,” thought Napoleon and smiled indulgently at her. However, at times it irritated him that Chandi treated her eggs as if they merited a pride of performance award. “As if this is the only act of creativity in the world! But then this is a hen’s lot. W
8 comments
Read more

Martian in the Land of Lilliputians

“Are you really from Mars?” Saif asks me in his usual pitch of voice: loud. He apparently presumes I am sitting on the ceiling fan.  “Saif, I am near. I can even hear you whisper. Yes, I am from Mars.” Saif tries to lower his voice a notch. He doesn’t succeed.  “No, you are not. You make up stories, and you don’t understand the language of birds and animals. You have made up also those stories about Selfishia and Kayseria.” “Saif, first you doubt my Martian antecedents and then you challenge my communication abilities. Okay, if you don’t want to believe it, don’t,” I say with Martian nonchalance. “But why do you say so? Okay, now that the Curiosity Rover has landed on Mars will you go back?” “I don’t need any curiosity rover. I can go there on my own volition, just by snapping my fingers and closing my eyes.” Martian nonchalance helps to make your point. “I know this can’t be true. You are not from Mars,” Saif asserts his nine years old adult-hood.
6 comments
Read more