Edited by: Tara Doraiswamy
“You know, I long for nightmares sometimes,” Sina says with a resigned shrug of the shoulders.
It’s almost dusk. The five of them sit on creaky, wooden benches, in the dappled shade of the chapel’s stained-glass windows. A dejected writer, a cheeky performer, a bright-eyed baker, an exhausted student, and a pallid priest. They’re an odd assortment. Yet they meet somewhere in between—in the liminal space between their very distinct worlds—in their writer’s room.
“Good dreams are like ghosts”, Sina continues, “A yearning for relief and hope that returns to haunt my wakefulness.” There are no margins in her dreamland, the roots of fancy reach deep into her.
Sina remembers the moment the world became grey. When the walls around her lover’s ribs became indifferent. In the end, she was on her own. Now, she lingers around the maroon academic buildings, by the flowering shrubs in the lawn, hoping and wishing she would see her somehow.
But she laughs in another’s arms.
People around her are content. They hold hands and whisper sweet nothings. Some push each other around in good fun.
Sparkling bursts of spectral colours. So, so very far out of her reach.
“Groups, cliques, trios, duos. It seems like bliss comes in pairs or more. And Sina is all alone”, she recites like a children’s poem.
Some of her companions turn an inquisitive eye; others stare into space. Father Vy looks at her solemnly. His kind eyes look misplaced on the deathly pallor of his face. The corners of his mouth twitch to speak when another voice untimely interrupts.
“Did you binge that horror show with the sexy mommy ghost?” Annie asks in a jesting voice.
“The Haunting of Hill House, you mean,” Felix mutters.
Whispers and snickers arise in the dark room, like bits and pieces of heathen gossip passed amongst maids in regency kitchens. Father Vy fixes a scolding look on Annie, who seems as unbothered as a cat.
Father Vy sighs deeply, rubbing the space between his eyes, quite resembling a single parent of petulant, little children. “Please continue, Sina.”
“Dreams are slippery. Bravery borders on mindlessness. We act in life with expectations of consequences that we dreamed of,” Sina explains.
“Ahh, so it’s not just Hill House… I smell baggage,” Annie sports a teasing grin, her short black nails tap on the table.
“Which Sina is under no pressure to share. A writer need not reveal all their inspirations,” Father Vy chides. He looks at Sina’s blank face, “Is something bothering you, child?”
“No Father. I’m alright.”
That would be a lie, Sina thinks. But writers are liars. We lie in the face of life. We mouth affection with a liar’s smile. Our dreams need not have happened to be true.
“In the name of Poe’s sunken eyeballs, you’re too angsty for your own good,” Annie drawls.
Sina looks up, jerked out of her trance, mumbling, “What?”
Annie throws her hands up, “Jeez… I get what you mean, alright! Social interaction becomes a battle of appearances. Everyone is warring to gleam for a moment’s glance, a moment’s love. Bloody are the fights. Vain are the highs that we ride. In the end, you’re on your own, a space too replaceable.”
“Please stop babbling in metaphors,” Tara says.
Annie scowls, turning to Sina.
“Do you remember the thermal energy graphs we studied during chemistry?”
A collective groan arises. Annie doesn’t care.
“Whenever there’s a reaction, the energy first goes up. Then depending on whether they’re exothermic or endothermic, it either stays above or below the initial state. That’s how I view relationships.”
“That’s quite interesting Annie,” Father Vy says, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“In the beginning, the chemistry always peaks. Then depending on the people, it either remains at a high state or goes down. And in life, to keep the chemistry higher than the initial level requires very specific conditions.”
“I studied the Arts, Annie,” Tara drones.
“More often than not, it will go below the original level,” Annie continues, “Very rarely will you have a relationship where the chemistry increases post the initial bloom. Even rarer would be if it remains there for long. And the rarest is that it increases with time.”
An eerie silence consumes the room. Until Tara squeals, “Aww baby Annie is a softie at heart!”
Annie scoffs, knocking her knuckles against Sina’s head, “And that’s usually true for all manners of relationships. But don’t mind me, I’m just bored out of my mind.”
Father Vy chuckles, “Fantastic Annie. That’s a good pitch in itself.”
—
The world shifts into technicolour. They sit on funky couches. It’s almost midnight. Their writer’s room has now reached its denouement.
“Alright kids, articles are due by next Tuesday! Time for a group photo!”, Vy calls out.
“We miss mom,” Tara whines. Inez aka ‘mom’, the content team’s co-head, had called in sick that morning.
The team exits the residence hall shortly after. Some stay back to chat.
As Sina walks towards the mess lawns, she hears Annie yell out her name. She turns around to see Annie sprinting towards her. Her cheeks flushed rose from the cold. Her movements jittery from anticipation. She breathes heavily.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
Annie appears to have an internal struggle as she shakes her head. Giving Sina a decisive look, she reaches out to slowly entangle their fingers. Annie looks away, chin tilted up. But Sina can tell that she’s trying to sneak a few peeks from the corner of her eye.
Sina has undoubtedly stopped breathing. Whatever semblance of coolness, dignity and rationality she had has vanished into the night. She feels stupid and happy, smiling shyly at their interlaced hands.
Annie grins, “Wanna grab some late-night snacks?”
A shimmering scene from a screen.
Electric blue shores of the sea.
I plunge unthinking of the deep.
Is it all a dream?
Or a dream within a dream?