Dreams. Probably made out of something, probably nothing.
In dreams, we float. In dreams, we are free! Free from the hustling demands of forever-postponed schedules, free from the pressure to be better than anyone else, free to be someone who even we might not recognise all that well! We are no longer mundane, prosaic nonentities, we are imaginative giants! In dreams, we simply create.
Dreams! Maybe there is some truth to them, maybe they are pure fancy.
In a dream, on a pulpit, stand two well-wishers for the present magazine — arguing fiercely about the longevity of this endeavour. Is it already burnt out? Behind them play magnificent scenes, enchanting music, strung together with carefully crafted detail, with intricate, easily recognisable shades of personality.
There are hordes of people around the pulpit, some cheering, some merely listening, some turning away to go see what happened to that sample in the fridge. Many are baying for blood — fresh, invigorating blood! What a ghoulish nightmare; what a cherished dream!
The optimist and the pessimist continue arguing.
Only the dreamer, the master creator, creating without even knowing, can visualise the sinewy ripples of the supporters and detractors. How hard he tries to make the sun shine on those beads of sweat on the eyebrow, making them sparkle and marking the warriors as gladiators!
And suddenly — in full blooded detail — the two well-wishers disintegrate into a thousand people on either side, fighting over an artistic ideology, fighting over the life of a magazine — it was never clear whether it was a present discomfort, or a future fear. In the dream, all this matters not! The fear of dying, the will to win and the joy of conquer exist side-by-side, egging us on.
A distant ringing — and the marvellous creation bursts into a million tiny fragments. Figures flit in and out of existence, fighting for a place in the sun. And the dreamer awakes.
The dreamer awakes — in a world stranger than the dream and way more methodical. A world in which his ideology is being constantly challenged by a thousand others and he is the lone warrior, ready to disintegrate into a thousand lusty ones with sinewy machismo.
Only sometimes, victorious, can he unleash his ideas. Only sometimes, can we create art. That art out of which dreams are made, the very crescendo of our resolute imagination.
Rahul Dandekar, Debjyoti Bardhan, Nairit Sur, Ronak Soni.
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