Dream A Little Dream

Ajay Vishwanathan

The room smells of coffee and dried red chilies and garlic. I like being here, sitting on the old rocking chair that doesn’t rock any more, and writing God’s name a thousand times every day in my notebook. My son comes to the room every day to get a bag of whatever he needs to sell. Sometimes he brings the doctor, sometimes news about Rann, my youngest grandson. It’s not really my room any more. It has become a storage area. I sit in one corner next to my bed, my presence as disposable as the next gunny sack of garlic. I don’t blame them. They need room to run their business. A seventy-year-old man with dead knees and a right-angled back doesn’t need much space just to sleep, eat and scrawl.

Then there is the window. It is small, has a permanently sealed glass pane soiled with dirt and cobwebs and bird droppings. But it is my only view of the world outside. I see Radwan walking by. He has become so old, stooped. But he must be still making the ladies happy with what he brings. I remember his younger days: the listless people of Miraj who used to light up twice a year – when mirror-man Radwan visited. He came to our obscure village from Kuala Lumpur, sold makeup, combs, colognes, perfumes and hand mirrors. He sold dreams, still does. Nowadays, I’d like to believe Miraj wakes at least four times a year. Twice because of Radwan, twice because of Rann.

When Rann arrives, he arrives. A chauffeur-driven car, half a dozen bags, strange haircuts and every time a different accent. He comes to visit us from America. Once, he kept telling my daughter-in-law, “Mom, you look so great, someone ought to put you on a plate and sop you up with a biscuit.” He is a charmer. They laugh at all his jokes and wait for him to hand them their presents. Chocolates, Nintendo, clothes, toy Jeeps. Rann thinks the ‘80s is the best thing that has happened to mankind. My son lives his dream through Rann. Especially since my other grandsons are good-for-nothing or dead. Rann is our family’s last chance. He is our mirror-man.

Once in a while, Rann comes to see me in the room. He walked into the room once with a plate of fish in his hand. He loves fish. He put his hand on my shoulder and asked me, “Do you know who Kevin Kline is?” and laughed at my stare. He then made funny faces. I think he was imitating somebody as usual from American movies. He thought I stared at him because I didn’t hear him but I stared because I didn’t know who this Mr. Kline was. They all think I cannot hear. I can, not that well, but I can.

That is why I know Rann doesn’t live in America. He comes into the room in the evenings and speaks to people on the cell phone. He thinks he is having a private conversation in the company of a deaf, scribbling fossil. But I don’t mind that. He is lying to his family because he sees happiness in their eyes, a newfound respect from his village for his parents. He works somewhere in the city, makes a decent salary, enough to fake his real identity.

This time Rann comes home with fancy dark chocolate for me. He has not given me chocolates before. He is constantly on the phone. He sounds excited, shows concern about a strange, new viral disease in America. I think he has got a real job there and will be leaving soon. I am happy for him. He won’t need to lie any more. He seems particularly friendly towards me, even gets someone to clean up the messy window.

Several months pass. Rann doesn’t come home. Miraj seems like a dead village. Radwan has passed away. The day we heard about our beloved mirror-man, it was like every villager had lost a relative. In the past few years, he seemed to have aged faster.  The doctor says I have developed a fatal illness. I think I have become less patient with pain. I overhear someone mention that Rann will visit us next year. I sigh. May not be alive to see him when he comes. I sigh again, and think about the irony, wishing he had continued to put on an act. That way, at least he came.
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