To Dream

      The light drizzle suddenly turned into a torrential downpour. Water mingled with the soft earth and I could feel the mud splashing onto my damp clothes. And what's with this wild breeze? It's desperately trying to blow me away. At times I really hate the rain, and then again at times I love it. But it affects me - one way or the other.

By now, the people around me have settled themselves considerably - inside nearby stores or a sheltered part of the pavement to protect themselves for a few minutes. People huddled together everywhere , nudging each other for a little extra space, a little extra comfort..

Oblivious to all this is a solitary man, somewhat old,  standing right under the open sky, with nothing to protect him except his own wet tattered clothing. He doesn't seem concerned though. For a moment he looks up at the sky, and then down at himself. Then he just stands there. A few people look at him, then look away. Then they look back at him and crack a few jokes. He turns around to look at the source of those giggles and playful jeers, but remains silent. The sound of the rain drowns everything.

I must have been looking at him with intrigue for quite some time now. It was still raining hard and he continued to stand under the sky, pacing up and down a few steps every now and then. After a while he went and sat on the muddy road. More jeers. It was a little drama going on there. People probably thought he was mad. And it was then that he looked at me all of a sudden. I felt a little unsettled initially and then noticed the look in his eyes. No, it wasn't one of anger, or defiance or even shame. It was an inexplicable moment - the look of desperation in his eyes.It seemed like he needed the rain right then, at that moment. He seemed like someone who thought the rain would wash away his past,his present, his memories, or maybe his guilt, his dreams, desires, his thoughts, everything. But no matter how hard it rained he looked worried ; as if it never washed him enough,as if his inner being still held some part of the filth that he wanted to do away with.

The rain had to stop at some point and it did. The people now rushed back to whatever they had been doing. The next thing I remember is hearing a loud wail.. a man crying (or rather almost shrieking) in the middle of the road. The same man, his eyes darting towards the sky. He howled, he screamed, he kicked , and then he fell to his knees, a shadow of defeat. There was a moment of abrupt silence, and then people got back to their senses.This man is mad, an utter waste of time. Some just moved past him, some jostled and pushed him to a corner of the street.

All except me had gone away. I couldn't budge. Eventually he did. He simply got up and stared at me, as if he knew I was still standing there. This time his eyes were devoid of any emotion. And yet he refused to look away. He just stood there, like a man whose life was over.. like someone who has realised that the light at the end of the deep dark tunnel does not exist; he knows the light is only a myth.

Today the memory of the incident was somehow rekindled. The wild cry that had escaped his throat that day. I don't know why he cried like that, and I never will. Was he really mad, or was it just a singular moment of utter despair? Probably despair arising out of a broken dream?

Just as well, it could be anything else.

But then, are we mad enough to risk a moment of utter despair? Are we mad enough to dream?