"Sapnon ke aise jahan mein, jahan pyaar hi pyaar khila ho
Hum jaa ke wahan kho jaaye, shikwa na koyi gila ho
Kahin bhair na ho, koi ghair na ho
Sab milke yoon chalte chale
Jahan gham bhi na ho, aansoo bhi na ho
Bas pyaar hi pyaar pale"
One such dream was made of the color blue. There were other colors too, but blue was the predominant one. There was this soft grey blue line in the distance that separated the sky from the ocean. Above that line was where the sun lived and sparkled. I never saw the sun, but could feel the warmth on my skin and in the soft white sand that squeaked as I walked. The white whips of cotton-ball like clouds were scattered in that blue sky. They had shades of white and grey, the edges gleaming like the crackling blaze of a new neon sign. Then the softer grayish clouds were just there, as unwanted guests. Below that line was this simmering blue ocean as far as my imagination could spread. It was deep bright blue at the far end but lightened up as it came closer to a greenish blue. Patches of brown-black dotted the blue-green waters to mark some sea vegetation, and that further added depth to the hues of green and blue. The sun reflected a million trillion times in the moving ripples and they shined like a million trillion little diamonds studded on a shawl draped on the water. Sometimes it was so bright that you had to squint to see it. I stood on the shore or at times was a bird zooming about, it really did not matter, the view was just the same. As I came closer to the shore, the blue waters gave way to white sands and white waves. The waves broke on large granite rocks, broken rocks covered with bright orange lichens. And the waves broke on the sandy beach too. On the beach, the waves were soft and gentle, as I imagined the kind caress of a mother's loving hand would be, as she puts her baby to sleep. The softer waves on the white sand spoke to me, they almost sang a mesmerizing lullaby that soothed my tired and pained heart. On the rocks, the waves were loud and ferocious, they were hard and relentless, like the metal on flesh that left deep bruises on body. The waves wore down the rocks over time, but it took a long long time, as I hoped my spirit would endure through the reality of my little life.
As you turned around, you could see rolling dunes covered by beach grass, some tall, some short and stubby. And beyond that were few lonesome trees but mostly paddocks for sheep. There was undulating land as far as the eye can see, leading into the thick forest of the mountains. Mist rose from the mountains and formed the clouds, it looked as if the mountains had tiny fires that yielded the smokey clouds. On the beach there were some small bushes of strong sea tolerant shrubs which housed these little sparrows, white crested black ones, with brown lines on their wings. Little sparrows, only about the size of the palm of a hand, and very busy ones, noisy ones, always scurrying about their little nests in the shrubs. In the paddock, right where the white dunes started there was a tiny log cabin. It was two stories; upstairs was the small loft bedroom with a tiny balcony. From the window of the room, and from its tiny bed you could see the horizon beyond; and as you stepped onto the balcony, you could see the edges of all my imagined world. The patio below had a swing, somewhere one could cuddle up in a blanket and watch the moon traverse the Milky Way at night. Inside, downstairs was a warm iron furnace, a desk for writing with a white lace tablecloth, a wall lined with a bookcase with books stacked from floor to ceiling, some and cushions on the floor. There was no sofa, but a low coffee table. Papers scattered on the floor and cushions, for I used like to lie down and study. The cabin was made of solid brown shiny wood, it smelled of lacquer and lavender. There were plenty sun streaming through the windows, with lace curtains. From every window I could see the ocean, the orange rocks, and the white sand.
Imagine my surprise when I saw this exact scene of that childhood dream in real at the end of a windy road. It was Christmas of 2007, we did not have much time, we just wanted to drive to The Gardens and tick it off the list. He waited in the car while I ran up the sandy path, and I was stunned. I was speechless, I could not even take pictures, it made no sense at all: How could what I had dreamed while staring at a limeslaked wall some 30 years back be real?? All I did was hobble back to the car and drive on, the feeling in my heart was too strong to explain, and too personal for him or anyone else to understand. I felt I had broken through some kind of mind-body barrier, it was that kind of intense sensation. For a whole decade I asked myself this question, was it real? Often I wondered if I had imagined it all as I was so attached to that childhood dream for that used to be my refuge. So I went back there this year and found it again, standing right there, just as true to my dream as it ever was. No, I was not imagining anymore, I was actually standing there, in the midst of my vivid childhood painting. This was Real. It gave me the chills, yet it also filled me with a deep sense of calm. The longing had evaporated. The sound of the waves, the breeze, the birds, and everything in that place assured me that This was Home, my HOME. I can stop searching now, I have arrived. The soft waves can now caress me to sleep, I will be nurtured here. Here is the mother I have been looking for, here is her loving embrace, here is indeed her lap where I can rest my head in peace, without fear, and in comfort.
