Dreams are peculiar landscapes where the mundane twists into something extraordinary, and yet, they dissolve too easily with the break of dawn. Most nights, my dreams are chaotic, fleeting, and forgettable. But last night was different. It was vivid, hauntingly familiar, and left me with a lingering ache I couldn’t shake off.
It began on a road I knew well, a path from my childhood in Aluva, my hometown in Kerala. This road, lined with towering coconut palms and dense greenery, wound its way down toward the stone steps that met the Periyar River. The air carried the unmistakable freshness that follows a karkidaka mazha, the heavy monsoon rains of Karkidakam. The scent of wet earth mingled with the aroma of damp leaves and the faint, tangy whiff of the river.
Walking down that road, I felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, as though the path itself remembered me. The dampness underfoot and the soft rustle of leaves above reminded me of endless childhood days spent exploring this familiar stretch. But this time, I wasn’t alone.
She walked beside me, her presence calming yet enigmatic. There were no distinct features that I could recall, not her face, not her voice, yet there was an undeniable warmth about her, a familiarity without explanation. She was a stranger, and yet, I felt like I’d known her for lifetimes.
The soundscape around us felt alive: the rustle of leaves, the faint hum of cicadas, the occasional plop of a drop falling from a high leaf into a puddle. As we walked, the conversation flowed effortlessly. I can’t remember the words, but the emotions were vivid. It felt as though she understood everything about me – the chaos I bury deep within, the thoughts I’m too afraid to confront. For the first time in a long while, I felt seen.
We reached the steps leading down to the river. These were no ordinary steps – they were etched into my memories, each stone worn smooth by time and water. The Periyar stretched before us, its surface shimmering like liquid silver under the soft, diffused light of a sun hidden by the monsoon clouds. The rain had stopped, but its essence lingered in the air, fresh and cool. We sat together on the steps, the river flowing gently before us, carrying the stories of countless lives in its currents.
Time seemed to blur. There was no urgency, no sense of past or future. We spoke about everything and nothing at once, her presence like a balm to an ache I hadn’t realised I carried. There was no romance, no longing in the conventional sense – just an intimacy that felt as natural as breathing.
But as dreams do, this one began to shift. The clarity of the surroundings started to dim. The Periyar, once vivid and alive, grew shrouded in mist. The trees blurred, their vibrant green fading into shadow. The sounds of nature dulled, as though someone were turning down the volume on the world itself. The air grew heavier, pressing against my chest.
She turned to me, her expression soft but resolute. “Do you have anything to tell me?” she asked, her voice carrying a strange mix of tenderness and urgency. Her question felt as though it carried the weight of something far greater than the moment. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. A lump formed in my throat. There was something I needed to say – I could feel it – but it refused to surface. The weight of unspoken words pressed against me, suffocating. All I could manage was a hesitant, almost apologetic, “No.”
Her gaze lingered on me, and for the first time, I saw something shift in her expression – a flicker of disappointment. It wasn’t angry or resentful; it was the quiet, resigned disappointment of someone who expected more but wouldn’t demand it. She gave a small, understanding nod, then stood. The mist thickened around her as she began to walk away.
“Wait!” I called out, panic rising in my chest. My legs moved on their own as I scrambled to my feet, chasing after her. But no matter how fast I ran, she seemed farther and farther away, her silhouette fading into the haze. The river, the trees, the road – all of it dissolved into nothingness.
And then, I woke up.
The contrast between the dream and reality hit me immediately. My flat in Bangalore greeted me with its harsh familiarity: the squeaky fan overhead struggling against the afternoon heat, the dull hum of traffic from the bustling streets below. The walls were stark and bare, a far cry from the lush, green embrace of my hometown. Even the air felt different – dry and heavy, lacking the earthy freshness of Aluva after a monsoon rain.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments of the dream. The vividness of it was slipping away, like water cupped in my hands. But the ache it left behind lingered. Who was she? Why did her departure feel so devastating, so final?
As I replayed the dream in my mind, a realisation began to dawn on me. She wasn’t just anyone. She was the embodiment of something I’d been avoiding for years – unresolved emotions tied to people and moments I had lost. Old friendships that faded into silence, relationships that ended too soon, words I left unspoken when the moment called for honesty.
Her question, “Do you have anything to tell me?” wasn’t about her. It was about them. Her disappointment wasn’t hers to own – it was mine, a reflection of all the times I had held back, choosing silence over vulnerability.
Sitting on the steps in the dream, choking on my own words, I was reminded of all the lessons I’d been taught growing up. “Boys don’t cry,” the adults would say. Vulnerability was weakness, emotion was indulgent, and intimacy, true, unguarded intimacy, was something to fear. Girls, I observed, were allowed to express themselves, but even they weren’t spared the burden of restraint, taught to hold back in ways that suited the expectations placed on them. In that carefully constructed world, intimacy, whether emotional or physical, became fraught, layered with unspoken rules and suppressed truths.
Those lessons didn’t fade with time. I’ve carried that weight into relationships, too. There have been moments when I wanted to express more – to tell someone how much they meant to me, to share my fears, my insecurities – but the words always felt stuck. I would brush things off with a joke, change the subject, or retreat into silence. And in those silences, something precious would slip away – a connection, a moment of closeness, an opportunity to truly be seen.
The dream felt like a reflection of all those moments. Her question “Do you have anything to tell me?” wasn’t just about the here and now; it was about the countless times I had let fear and conditioning hold me back. It reminded me of the relationships I’d let drift, the love I’d been too afraid to show, and the walls I had built, brick by brick, between myself and the people who mattered.
The dream had been lush, alive, and deeply intimate, while the present felt stark and lonely. Was this a consequence of my own doing? Had my inability to embrace vulnerability left me in this echo chamber of my own making?
Sitting up in bed, I made a silent promise to myself. The next time I’m asked, “Do you have anything to tell me?” I’ll make sure my answer isn’t “No.”
