Beyond my dream

Today I am back here, on this bridge, gazing into the horizon and wondering where is it that I need to go. I came here three years ago. From this same horizon I drew my strength, and achieved my dream. Now, I am so attached to my dream, that I am afraid to dream another dream.

Three years ago, right here, I made up my mind to walk up to the editor’s office and ask for a chance to become a reporter. I had no journalism degree and didn’t know a thing about what journalists do, but then, being a journalist was my dream.

I looked for the number of the Daily Express in the directory, and dialed the number. The secretary answered and in a curt voice asked, “Yes, why is it that you want to meet the editor?”
“I want to apply for a reporter’s job,” I said.
“Wait a minute, let me check… Come this evening at 6.30 pm.”

That was unbelievable. I met the editor and offered to work without pay. The editor asked, “Why is it that you want to work here?”
“To learn the nuances of journalism,” I replied.
That was all, and I was on board, without pay for two and a half months and then I received my appointment letter.

I had achieved my dream, and went to become a successful reporter in the city. My salary was doubled within a year. I joined another paper for three times more than what I was paid here. I was getting more offers and I relished the fame and attention in journalistic circles. I had a long way to go to make a national mark.

Through all this there is one person who stood by me, right from the start. Sameer, is his name, which in Hindi meant waft of wind. This wind has soothed me through all the troubles and there is no one other than him, I would love to live with. When I am distressed all that he does is clasp my hand, and I can feel the stress passing into him, leaving me relieved.

Last night, he came to my place and squatted on the sofa, like he always does. He took my hand in his and raised it, such that it reflected the light of the lamp on the rose wood table. I waited to feel his lips on it, but he continued looking into my eyes and simply said, “Would you be my wife?”

There was no way, I could say no at that moment. I would have been a stone if I refused. I threw myself in his arms and whispered, “Yes,” and kissed his ears.

The moment was the happiest, but later other thoughts crept in. Marrying him would mean, living with him in a remote desert. He was going to the Thar Desert in India to work for a NGO. He wanted me to come with him. This meant the end of my career.

Which newspaper would have a bureau in a desert which is practically dead? Other than a documentary or the filing of a news item in case of an epidemic or drought, what scope did a reporter have? Of course, I would not be paid as much as I am paid in a city. It would mean the end of my dream.

So, I am back, back to the bridge from where I began it all. It was here that I got the strength to walk up to the editor, give up my job in a call centre and work without pay with uncertainty. That was my dream and how can I give it up?

I looked down into the murky water, and saw the cranes which picked fishes from the river. They have migrated with the hope of a warm weather and food.

Well, why did I come to journalism? Journalism attracted me because of its power to help the helpless, to cleanse the society. But what I am doing is simply marketing. I am writing to please the target audience; the ones who can afford to buy the paper and attract advertisers.
         
It was a cold December evening. I was just back from office after visiting a crime scene. As a routine my editor asked for the story brief. “There has been a gruesome murder. A man’s head was smashed with a boulder. The police suspect rivalry at workplace,” I said.

“What profession was the victim in?” he asked.
“Construction labor”
“Not our audience. Nobody wants to know about the laborers. Any other crime today?”
“An IT consultant was robbed of his laptop, cell phone and cards while he was driving home drunk after a party last night.”
“That’s a great story. Get the consultant’s picture and his version too.”

A life had no dignity, but status had. This is not what I dreamt of, but the money and fame has trapped me. I don’t want to get out of it.

When I was 10, I wanted to be a writer. After I finished writing, I got a sense of joy. To become a good writer, I wanted to be in direct touch with people, and journalism would help me do it. I considered the path to my dream, as my dream itself.  I have become so busy with the routine life that I have forgotten to look within.

I have to look beyond my present existence to see another dream. Living with Sameer won’t be bad after all. There will be love and meaning too. He has found his dream and is living a more meaningful life. I too can begin writing again in the serenity of the desert. Cities are not the ultimate destination, but they in fact, suck our soul and trap us in its concrete maze.

Just then, the cranes below the bridge rose and flew towards the horizon. They too are going in quest of another place, dreaming another dream.


Word count: 996