I dreamt my life last night...

The wind howled in my ears, and the trees, just like the grass, were kissing the ground. Water was pouring from the skies, and bouncing off the ground. I could feel the loud thuds of heavy downpour on my head and the back of my neck. Some water seeped into my ears as well. With eyes squinted I rambled on, in my hysteria, not really looking for shelter, but just wanting to feel the rain a little more violently. I couldn't see much, but I could hear the hut's tin roof clanking away into the wee hours of the night. It was as if all the spoons, knives, mirrors, and dishes from the Beauty and the Beast had come over to celebrate the end of the never-ending drought. I ran in the direction of the loudest clamor and hugged the worn-down and soaked wooden wall, made up of tree trunks of surprisingly similar width. And suddenly I was thinking about the death of all these trees to make up these four walls, to provide shelter to one or two. But the tree trunks stood resolute against the gushes of wind.

And all of a sudden I had this urge to run away from there, far away from there, and then I was in Mrs. Boxworth's sixth grade music class, auditioning for the chorus. I was making an utter fool of myself in that bright room with the somber looking piano, trying to hide my crush on her, and at the same time trying to sound not too unpleasant. Unsure if I should lean against the piano, I just stood there with my arms folded, and eyes still squinted. The sun in Spring Valley always shone very bright on a clear March morning. And then I was thinking about the walk back from the school. It would be very cold, and the kids would be mean to me again. I would be Saddam Boy to them. Strange that I only found out about Saddam after I was called his boy, strange as I wasn't even from his country. And I needed to leave again.

And in that very moment I had grown a couple of years, and was playing cricket with my friends from the street. They would soon close the play-ground to build the market, so it was very important to play as much as we could. At-least we'd still have our naala which smelled a little funny. Mother said that it was always less them a mile from you wherever you went in Islamabad, and that it wasn't form swimming as the water was dirty. But it didn't seem dirty, just smelled a little. I played the ball to the off-side and ran for a single, and collapsed to the ground before I made it to the other end. It was as if someone was sticking out a needle right under my right kidney. Soon this guy in a white coat was telling me about my appendix, and how they had to do something right away, and I needed to run away again.

And then I was in the old book shop in Jinnah, rifling through as many books as I could, and making sure I didn't spill my coffee on any. Shabbir chacha had already warned me not to. But he let me drink coffee in his little shop, as he said I wasn't like these other kids from my school, and my parents had taught me respect. Hemingway sounded like a cool name, and I decided to walk out with the old man and take his sea with me. It looked small enough to finish in a night, and then my parents would think I was studying for the Math exam. Besides I couldn't call Zeeshan up at night as he would be talking to his girlfriend on the phone and tell his mother that it was me. And now it reminded me of her and I wanted to be gone from there as well. I wanted to be all grown up, and I wanted to have a full stubble like all the other guys in class, well not all, but most of them. Maybe I should try shaving with my uncle's Sensor Excel again.

And there I was walking down that crooked path right across from the Covered market, that lead to the two swings on the left. I was on the swing and my troupe of four were all walking and swinging around me. We were speaking of everything, love, life, parents, and that really cool show about that group of six friends in New York, and the ever alluding GPA. I was told by my true friend to focus more on my assignments, but I convinced her to just let me copy. She disagreed but I knew she would let me copy anyway. And then it was decided to go to the dhaaba that was at the end of the crooked path, for a cup of tea (or two) . And then I was thinking about that dog that came out of the house with all the flowers. It wasn't that I was scared of dogs, I just never liked them very much, at least that would be my story and I would stick to it. But I decided to walk in the middle of everyone just to be safe. And I knew that I needed to move on.

And then I was sitting in that hall full of people, all of whom were facing me. The fancy shayrwaani kurta was suffocating me and the turban was just outright silly. To top it off, Nasir bhai (my barber) had bleached my hands without saying what he was doing. So I this brown dude with blond hair on his hands, wearing a funny outfit, facing the crowd. The mike in front of my looked like a viper, and I wondered if the dude with the big beard would ask me to recite the third kalma. I should have learned it, and I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass someday. Or at least I should have shaved my goatee, for there was this sect that had goatees that weren't considered Muslims.

Shit!

I was thinking of what the sect was called and the Imam was talking to me. Well at least I wasn't being quizzed, just made to affirm my beliefs. And then I was looking at the papers in front of me and the yellow Piano pen lying on top of them. I would make the biggest decision in my life, and sign it off with a freaking Rs. One-Fifty, Piano-shitty-ball point pen. I needed to get out of there.

And then I was hugging the soaked hut again. The wind was as loud, the downpour as thick, but I felt still. I was in a state of complete heartsease. It was as if I could hear every drop of rain on every surface in the vicinity. Kind of like the first time I smoked pot. I wasn't awkward, anxious, or uncertain. I was just there.

There in that moment, that fake, hallucinogenic moment, which felt more real then my life in a very uncanny way.