It Was As If, Dreams Were For Sale

Photo credit: www.tripAdvisor.com
Memory tag: Walking down Poilce Bazaar Shillong, with my son.

Police Bazaar. A name that dreams are hardly made up of! Yet, in this late twilight, the ordinary has a dream like quality. It was as if dreams were for sale! Evening lights mirrored in the bubbles that float lazily by. The bubble maker seemed   to say buy one and make a million!  Candy floss sadly imprisoned in cold plastic, hung from a wooden lattice that served for a mobile sweet shop. A bad dream this, if you knew its gossamer beginnings! People cue up in front of the smoking hot cauldron. A young recruit (read trainee in retail parlance) weighs out packets of jalebis against pink payment slips. No sooner is a golden yellow squiggle lifted out and soaked in sugar syrup; it is weighed, packed and sold! The hot crisp, succulent crunch is heart warming and soul satisfying as the cold night wind whips around us.

 On the now darkening pavement new and old jostle for limelight. Bollywood in compacted discs reaches out in offerings of instant gratification. Bombay dreams have never lost their gloss, recession or no recession! Unbelievable bargains ring out socks, shirts, shawls, jackets, shoes,’ek ke saath ek muft ‘, is the least on offer. True for twins as for merchandise! Somewhere, a passing mobile radio brings the strains of the self same song from the movie Guru, set to AR Rehmans feet tapping music! Street or red carpet, everyone dreams and works to a personal Oscar, whatever the means. Thank the gods, at least dreams are not taxed, and becoming a billionaire (millionaires were in fashion only from Marco Polo to  the 81st Academy Awards) is not impossible. A hunchback surreptitiously hops out of a taxi, goes into a wine shop and picks up some liquid nourishment. I would have imagined the adjoining medical shop would provide more relief.  Is he one more subscriber to the Omar Khayyam logic?
“The Grape that can with Logic absolute
 The Two and Seventy jarring Sects confute:
 The subtle Alchemist that in a Trice
Life’s leaden Metal into Gold transmute.”

Hemmed in by routine and examinations, exhausted by lack of fancy free roaming, we stepped out at the first opportunity.  The streets were a seamless acrylic of images surreal, mundane and dreamy. Imagine those luscious red berries of love and health, packed tight in airless plastic boxes, instead of rustic, organic straw! Strawberries vegetable size, half a fat dozen, sold at nearly six rupees a piece! Are in a in a Christie’s auction? The skies suddenly open up and we take shelter in kitchens from Tibet in Shillong . They offer Shey Mo, the honorific term for momo or Tibetan dumpling. I send a sms to a Shillong exile, “Cool, cold March rains in pine city. Hot steaming momos, strong milky tea.  Wish you were here!”  The momo is a dim sum among the Chinese. Dim sum means heart warmer!  As we bite into hot, steamed delicate momos, we are struck by the irony. A snack crosses borders  and become a heart warmer. If only life was really this simple!  

As we walk out, well satiated, I look up into a ear clutching, smiling face. Earache or mobile telephony? How would an ET (extraterrestrial) react? Maybe on their planet, mobile phones had gone out with Edison and, just a waggle of ‘elvish’ ears are enough now. Hyper efficient external ears. Darwinian evolution, in ET mode? We walk into a different cosmos. Shops managed by brand Indian business, selling terrestrial global brands. It even has a bookstore named after one of the oldest universities. What’s in a name? In Shakespeare’s time, they say a rose by any other would smell as sweet! I would think a name carries an invocation, an aspiration, an image, a lineage (just not filial) and many a time fun and joy! Do we carry only one label for lifetime or can metamorphose beyond this label? Otherwise, what are dreams for?