Lucid Dreams
A bustling evening in Kathmandu with the sun setting down the sky in the backdrop; a chilly breeze brushing our face as we were walking down the streets of Maitighar. The city was in a rush, and so was I. I looked at his face, at his tranquil gaze, and I calmed down. He was talking about his humdrums with such uttermost enthusiasm that I couldn’t help but smile like an idiot at whatever he had to say. When it was my turn to talk about the mundanity in my life, silence prevailed around us. I stood dumbfounded, or should I say I walked dumbfounded. The butterflies in my stomach started singing the tunes of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ and my brain cells started tuning along. I could remember what a boring day I had, but my mouth was unable to form sensible words to depict it like the way he did. I said something without realizing it was not remotely funny. He laughed. I crack the lamest jokes, you know. And, do I need to mention that he has the most contagious laughter? I started chuckling, at my own expense. The dusky sky started glowing. I noticed the fireworks — red, blue, green colors sputtering all-over the golden canopy above us. The sky was radiant, and so was I.
The wheels and feet were making their way back to their abode, and there was I who wanted to freeze that hour. Unlike every individual, the zebra crossings are never in haste. They witnessed him holding my hands while crossing the road amidst the speedy vehicles. It was a ‘palat’ moment for me like every cliché Bollywood movie, but I had turned back to look at the zebra crossings. It felt like those black-and-white stripes were promising me to provide a time-turner every time I walked on those roads again. He didn’t let go of my hand. It was warm. The chilly breeze didn’t feel chilly anymore. The mood was mellow, and the voices in the background sounded mellifluous. I was only a few seconds away from hearing violins being played as the background score when he started humming. I couldn’t figure out the song, but it sounded good in his husky voice. He glanced at me while his lips were forming the words of the song. That glance was an invitation to sing along. As if understanding the perplexed look on my face, ‘Someone You Loved’, he said. I finally recognized the Lewis Capaldi song. We started humming together. A couple of misfits singing a heartbreak melody at a wintry eventide in the streets of Kathmandu.
We reached the crowded streets of Baneshwor. The buses were jam-packed; people jostling against one another to get a seat for a comfortable ride back home and the conductor simultaneously yelling ‘seat khali seat khali ‘ even when getting a spot to stand on was a lot to ask for. I could see my bus coming towards us. I wasn’t ready to let go of the snugness of his fingers. I tried unseeing the bus, but the conductor, being very diligent, started shouting ‘Sallaghari, Bhaktapur jaane ho, jaane ho, seat khali, seat khali’ , at the top of his voice. He heard it and looked at me. The look on my face was clearly saying that I didn’t want to leave. The look on his face was saying he didn’t want me to, either. However, his words said that I better hop on if I wanted to reach home on time. He was right. I had to leave. He hugged me goodbye. I boarded the bus, squeezed my way through the crowd into a rather safe space, put in my earphones and quietly slipped into my reverie.
