And that evening, I dreamt of winters.
Of dreary deserted afternoons that shunned all perversion of a busy city life. A city that was far away from today, unaware of its very existence, covered with fog and frustration. Like the whale in the sea doesn’t know ATM’s eat plastic cards and spit out cash. Like the ATM doesn’t know how high the tide rushes on full moon nights, only to return broken glass bottles, or a bracelet of cracked shells, or lost boots to the shore.
But the winter knew about the boy who played in the gardens while his parents slept under cosy blankets and the old lady across the street who sat knitting woollen baby shoes and gloves for her grandson who’ll never come.
No one told the winter.
But he knew.
Like a Gestapo.
The boy in the garden played under the belle tree, with plastic animals that came from fairs. Always in transparent plastic packets with their mouths melted shut and the animals would be of a different colour than that in his words-n-pictures book.
Green Tiger.
Blue Wolf.
Maroon Rhino.
He had never seen a rhino, so he wasn’t sure how it looked. But he had a maroon muffler that his mom had knitted him, and he hated how it looked.
“If I don’t like a maroon muffler, how can someone like maroon skin” he thought.
But he never asked his class teacher that.
Because she was beautiful and strict and he was shy and stuttered when he spoke.
So he plays with his oddly coloured plastic animals, while winter winds rustled his hair and the leaves of the dusty belle tree shiver and fall one by one.
The lady in her armchair sat and knitted.
Jump over two hoops and slide through the loop.
Jump over two hoops and slide through the loop.
Like an Easter bunny, whose knees creaked every time he hopped and his arms cricked every time he looped. Arthritis, smiling grey haired quacks told her.
And she winced like a rusted bolt on the door-door-door.
She winced and she knitted. She knitted and she winced.
And winter winds blew her silver hair like snowflakes left alone.
The boy dreamt strange dreams. Of a world that wanted to be him. Of a world that he wanted to be.
There were sounds and scents of that world, and curiously they mingled with sounds of scents of him.
The belle tree burst into blossoms in the late afternoon; white buds, small and numerous. They spread their perfume late in the evening, when a home returning cold breeze touched them and they twisted and twirled and fell to the ground, as if plucked by invisible trailing fingers.
He could smell them, everyone could, their sweet smell.
It was more of a flavour, which lingered in the air, making it heavy, as the boy completed his literature homework.
It was still there, when he slept, lingering in his dreams.
Dreams of a world that was his, and wasn’t. A world where he could see me.
And I could dream him.
I reminded him of childhood pranks, of hot chocolate while sitting in front of the fireplace, of cricket matches that ended abruptly when the guy who owned the wickets was declared out.
So we played football, because the football belonged to him too, and no one had to wait for turns.
He reminds me of bullies at school, who steal erasers and hide water bottles. About whom I couldn’t complain, because the teacher is beautiful and stern and I am shy and stutter when I speak.
The frail old lady knitted all afternoon, because she had no belle buds to stifle her dreams. So she never slept.
At night her knees kept her awake. At afternoon, Sweaters-for-her-grandson-who’ll-never-come.
She didn’t dream, for she had nothing to dream of. Because her world was singular and desolate.
Yet, it shone and sparkled, when sunlight came through cut-glass windows of memory and fell on her face. In that one moment, her skin grew taut; her wrinkles faded into laugh lines embracing her eyes that accentuated to applaud her dear departed husband’s jokes.
Then it passed. And the day was cloudy inside her head again.
Outside it was cold, perennially dry, and a boy played in his garden while he slept in warm dreams and the winter winds blew across rustling tree leaves like an all knowing saint.
And that evening, I dreamt of winters.
Winters, that never came, and never left.
Dreams, which were never, mine anyway.
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This story was shortlisted for the final round of #AWinterInStoryland Story Writing Contest. Read other shortlisted entries here.
Being a contest entry, this story has been posted without any edits.