Someday, you will be in love again.
The sun, the wound on your windowsill.
Light falls on your dreams.
It sounds like someone knocking.
-Sanna Wani, Memory is Sleeping
-Aryan-
"Manu, What's your wildest dream?" I asked her as we were having a phone call with each other at the crack of dawn.
"There are many." she answered.
"Of course. Okay, forget dream but tell me something you want to experience at this moment."
"I don't know, yaar. But at this moment I want to watch the sunrise, sitting somewhere peaceful, sipping a cup of chai, listening to some really good hindi songs." she paused, "we can't consider it as dream, as such."
"Yeah, but we can consider it as a khwaish, a wish." I said.
"Yes, we can. Okay, now I got to go, it's 4:30. I must get some sleep, before I head to the college."
"Sure."
-Manasvi-
My phone ringed, earsplitting, waking me up from sleep. It was Aryan. I checked the time on my phone, it said 5:18 am. I wondered what made Aryan call me again, but instead of wasting my time, I answered the call.
"Good morning, Mana!" he said. In a super cheerful voice.
"Good morning, but wait, didn't we just speak? It has not even been an hour since we spoke." I said, shocked.
"Yeah, I do know. But, stop wasting your time, and get ready."
"What? Why?" I asked, astonished.
"Look, you're wasting our time again." he said. "I am waiting outside the gate of your apartment. Get ready, and get down."
I rushed to my balcony to look down. There he was, sitting on Royal Enfield, I wondered if he really owned one, because it was comparatively way cheaper than the cars he owned. He waved at me, removing the helmet and smiled. I grinned back. I was experiencing the best morning of my life. He gestured at me to come down soon. I rushed to the bathroom. And for the first time in my life, I got ready within 15 minutes, that too this early in the day. I donned a white t-shirt, and baggy jeans, carried my purse and sunglasses. And rushed downstairs.
"Come on! woman. Get on the bike." Aryan said, jubilantly. "Are you ready?!" he asked once I sat behind him.
"Yes. Yes." I laughed.
We drove through the streets of Mumbai. Tiny alleys. Huge chowks. Buildings, apartments, offices everywhere. Strangely, Mumbai wasn't as chaotic as it is always, at this time of the day. The sky still possessed various shades of violet. And suddenly it struck me that these buildings, apartments, offices that surround these streets, everywhere, for which Mumbai is known, are homes, are actually homes, therein resides someone's dreams, abundant hopes, ample resilience. Many of the Mumbaikers would have woken up, I thought, a lady must be in her kitchen preparing breakfast and tiffin boxes for her family, portrait of a mother's love and wife's care. A gentlemen must be getting ready for the day's work, he must be awake all night thinking about how to repay his home loan and pay his kids' school fees, portrait of selflessness. A school kid must be getting ready for an exam, portrait of unavoidable anxiety. An old man must be laying on his bed, unable to get things done on his own, portrait of infinite wait and longing. An old lady must be offering her morning prayers, and one thing has to be constant in these prayers that his, waiting for his NRI son to return back to her, portrait of undying loneliness.
