In our poor lives, we dream rich dreams. From our lowly mud slums, we look up to the high heavens and dream and hope and pray that our life’s journey bring us closer every day to those heavens. We live in our dreams; our lives become our dream.
We struggle for our dream and we struggle against each other, for there isn’t enough to satisfy everyone’s dream in our land. Opportunities are few and far between and the dreamers aplenty. We push in the crowd, trying to elbow our way to our goal, while some fall away kicking and screaming, the sight of their fall searing us even more and we end up fighting an even bloodier fight.
I meet people who have fallen while I was kicking for my space in the crowd. They tell me their tales where-in they ‘compromised’ for the sake of things other than their own self, with a resigned look in their eyes. I feel sad for them, even want to console them but do not for I may hurt their ego. Their tales deepen the shadow of fear in me .I pause amidst the milling crowd for a second and swallow hard the rising lump in my throat and frantically eye the grey skies overhead for some sign of relief.
We know what we are capable of, and we know that what we want is just beyond that door. Our dreams are closed in on all sides by thick walls that rise unto the skies and the lone door is tiny. We bang our heads against the walls moaning, and groaning at our slim chances .Around me, I see some people weeping for it’s their last chance to get their dreams. If not this time, they will have to give up and fall back into lowly slum lives. They fear that they will be reduced to telling tales of their lost dreams.
Here, we grow up fast, fast-forward childhood and ignore adolescence. We harden our hearts against teenage love and wave good bye to song and story quite early, for we realize there are grim realities to be tackled before we get a chance to knock at our dream’s door. Bibliophiles read only text books, singers sang only theories and dancers danced to the tunes of their syllabi, for we didn’t want to fall prey to ‘distractions’.
It’s drizzling on us as we crowd outside the walls, kicking the slush. There is no ray of light except when the door opens to let a lucky one in. Then there’s a renewed energy and we push even harder in the direction of the light. Braving the darkness and the rain, each one to his very own selfish self, we push and shove, we claw and we kick…For ,in our land, the dreams are many and the chances few…
PS : Bringing to light an old piece.