Dream

By Sangeeta Das

The mushroom smiles. I look at the photo, satisfied. Just the click I need for Instagram. The monsoons bring out the best in all hill-stations. The green cover around me calms my overworked city nerves, the smell of the wet earth feels therapeutic. I can feel the stress of my insane, deadline-driven, corporate, single, 30-something, unhappy life melt away. The chill in the air is warm to my worn-out senses. The birds chirp, the orchids on the trees sway in the gentle wind. I close my eyes as if to hold the moment.

“The leeches must be feasting on you by now,” says a voice behind me.

The word leech is enough to bring out the athlete in me. I jump, kick in the air, run a few metres, and almost throw my fancy mobile phone, shouting bitter nothings. A tiny voice laughs, and I notice my intruder. A small, freckled face looks at me, hands inside a huge furry jacket that almost covers the little being who stands with the air of a confident adult but can’t have seen more than seven or eight years of existence on this earth.

“Looks like you get scared easily,” the lopsided smile betrays his age. “Anybody would, right, with a stranger creeping up from behind,” I say, somehow irritated by the way the kid is trying to make me feel foolish. I start walking and sense him walking behind me. We walk silently for a while.

“So, what is your name?” I ask without looking back, just to break the silence.

“Rohitesh.” “Seriously? That is a nice name, though it’s a very formal one, Rohitesh.” I stress on the name and laugh, though I regret it immediately – it sounds stupid to laugh at somebody’s name.

"Why do you laugh? That is what everybody calls me in school, and you should call me that too, okay?” he says firmly. It is a command that is also a little pleading; it sounds endearing. I smile, turning back to look at him.

“And what are you doing here alone? It’s quite a lonely stretch of road.” “What do you mean alone? I am always on my own. I do all the chores at home when my parents go to work. I know everything, I am very smart,” the kid looks at me with an expression so defiant it almost pierces me. He is not amused at being treated like a kid.

“Ha, ha! Of course, you are. So, what do you do, Mr Rohitesh?”

This interests him, and he takes a few big steps to walk alongside me. “We have a huge apple orchard; it has lots and lots of apple trees. They produce bright red apples almost throughout the year. The sweetest apples you will ever taste and the juiciest. My brother and I pluck them and bring them to be packed in the cane baskets. My mummy and aunts make the best apple jam you would have ever tasted in your life. I stick the stickers on the bottles. They are called Rohitesh Jam.”

He takes out two apples as he speaks and offers me one. We eat in silence for a while; it is indeed sweet and crunchy. I look at the kid walking with me, his rosy cheeks competing with the apple in his hand.

“You know, we have a few peach trees too. I planted them last year and they will be able to produce fruits by next year. Father got some sheep a few months ago and they poop across the apple farm. I don’t like it so I need to shoo them off to the other side of the farm. I like running behind them when they mehhhh in unison. I do not like their smell, though, but mummy says they give milk for me to drink in the morning, so I try not to smell them too much now.”

He pauses as if trying to ward off the smell in his nose. “So, you are a tourist?” He looks at me a little more closely to check if I look like one.

“No, I am from Dehradun, I came to attend a wedding of a relative. Now that the wedding is over, I drove down to Mussoorie to spend a quiet day by myself. They are too noisy, these weddings, you know. And sometimes you are so lost in the crowd; sometimes even known faces are nothing but a crowd and it is claustrophobic.

Sometimes you need nothing but peace, away from people, from work, from friends, from the unproductive life you are living.”

He nods as if he understands ‘the peace’ I want. I don’t know why I am even telling him all this but it is good to talk to somebody who at least pretends to understand. “It is very quiet at my apple orchard. I study my books sitting under the big shady trees. Sometimes the bees disturb me with their humming noise, but that’s all that you can hear there, the bees and the birds. I like these sounds now, I read about them in my books, so I listen to them.” He makes a humming sound and we both laugh.

“My mother made me a swing this summer out of her sari, between two apple trees. It’s a beautiful orange swing; all my friends fight to sit and sway on it. But it is my swing and I get it whenever I want.”

He smiles innocently. I do not interrupt his monologue and we walk along together, sharing the moment. I can see the swing in my mind amidst the apple trees.

“It’s been raining a lot these days, so I am unable to go to the orchard. But every morning I look out of my window and see the rain-washed shining red apples. Mummy puts a huge chunk of apple jam on my bread for morning breakfast – it’s very funny when I have that jam and look at the apple trees because the apples look so big and strong but mummy mashes them and makes jam out of them.”

I smile, it is funny the way he says it, I can taste the sweetness of the jam as I listen to him. Rohitesh Jam. I should buy one, I think, though I do not really like jam and not apple jam, for sure. Apple has never been to my liking in any way, other than the chunks in my sangria.

The smell of freshly roasted bhutta makes me realise we have reached the market at the end of the road. It reminds me I am hungry too. I look at my little friend, “How about a corn?” “You get better one on the other side of the market,” he tells me with an air of experience, like a father tells his child.

“Arre, Chinnu, you are here! Your mother has been looking for you for so long now, go run home!” The tea stall guy shouts at my little companion. “She came here at least thrice.” The boy looks visibly embarrassed at being addressed by his pet name. I chuckle and want to call him “Chinnu,” but check myself before being rebuked by Mr Rohitesh.

“Bhaiya, give two bhuttas and do select the soft ones.” Before I can complete my sentence, my newfound friend leaves me as suddenly as he appeared. I see his figure disappear out of sight as he runs into one of the narrow lanes, probably leading to his home by the beautiful apple orchard.

“Kya kahe, madam, his mother always has to run behind him. Growing naughtier by the day, this boy.”

I laugh. “He’s a nice kid, bhaiya; he kept me company and saved me f rom the leeches.”

Old, wrinkled hands roast my golden corn and I settle myself on a small bench beside the tea stall. “Yes, he’s very talkative. Everybody here pampers him. He’s a spoilt brat now, but very helpful and an intelligent kid.” The old man speaks fondly as he flips the corn. “He was telling me about his apple orchard and the jams they produce. I was thinking I should buy one of his Rohitesh apple jams.”

The old man laughs a hearty laugh. “Arre, madam, so he told you too about the apple orchard. That is the one he dreams of day in and day out since the time he knew to dream. His father is a carpenter and his mother works as a helper at an apple farm. Chinnu loves apples and jam and he dreams of having his own orchard someday. He talks about it so much, it’s almost as if he is living his dream.”

I am stunned. Not once did I feel it was just a story, I could see the orchard when he described it to me. I could taste the sweetness of the jam that he ate in the mornings. I could hear him running around the apple trees. How could it all be something that he just created in his mind?

I munch on the corn, the apple orchard vivid in my mind. I pay the old man a fifty-rupee note. “Bas, ten rupees, madam,” he fiddles to gather the change f rom a rusted steel box. I thank him for the delicious corn he chose for me. As if reading my thoughts that are still on the little kid, he tells me, “Madam, what is life without a happy dream of our own? It is only in those little worlds we weave that we can live how we want and have what we want. Some strive to realise their dreams, and there are some just happy to live in one. Either way, that is the beauty of a dream.” He smiles and hands me the change. I bid him goodbye.

His words ring in my ears. “What is life without a happy dream of our own?” Do I have one? Have I strived to realise one?

I meet my driver at the parking lot on Mall Road. It is past dusk as we drive through meandering hairpin turns. Below, the city lights up like a happy mandala glowing and making its presence felt in the darkness of the night. A little ahead, we come across a bakery on the side of the road. It has a board with an inviting picture of a hot cup of coffee. I make a pit stop here and get coffee for myself. As I turn to leave, I remember something and walk towards the counter. “Can I also get a bottle of that apple jam, please?”

Biochemist, bibliophile and travel enthusiast Sangeeta Das was born and raised in the beautiful hills of Shillong, Meghalaya. She is now a learning and development professional based in Bengaluru, and is on a new journey exploring her writing skills.