For those of us who are familiar with the partaking of late evening snacks served up by a seemingly endless row of hawkers, a scene of chaotic sounds, smells and billows of smoke should come flooding back to you. I can’t quite place what city this was in, and I suppose it doesn’t matter entirely, but the scene was one of a behind-the-scenes life of one of the vendors of delectable wares. Enter me. I’m one of the vendors, the eldest of two sons, helping my father out at his trusty chat stall. It’s the usual night of madness after sunset, hordes of people descending on our little stall because we happen to make the best chat for miles around.
Late into the night, as all of us vendors are packing up and at various stages of heading home for some well earned rest, our stall-neighbors call out to us. Theirs is a large family, eight children large, all of them younger than twelve years of age. The kids’ father asks if one of us can help out with getting the kids and their mother back home. My father volunteers me proudly, and I set out to do a good job, making up my mind to fulfill the mission I have been asked to carry out with aplomb. Our neighbors own a cycle rickshaw that seats the whole family comfortably; the reason they can’t all travel together is that the father decides to stay back late to make some extra money catering to the “midnight crowd”. Having been thrust the responsibility of transporting these kids safely, and after getting them to sit down without creating too much of a ruckus, we begin our journey home. SCREEEECH!!! BLAM!!!
A lorry comes out of nowhere and sends us all flying in different directions. The aftermath? All eight children and their mother perish in the accident. But I, well, I emerge without a scratch. Their father, obviously distraught, blames me for the entire thing. The guilt is almost unbearable, especially when you add to it the constant stream of invective that the grieving father continues to hurl at me.
The last scene, with a quick sort of cinematographic flash-forward, begins with me, looking very old. I seem to have retired happily, and I’m standing in front of what I recognize as my father’s ancestral home in Mahe. I’m standing out front having a casual conversation with a friend, on a beautifully sunny day. Sud
denly, from out of the blue, the vendor - father to the family that perished in the accident for which I was responsible - bursts onto the scene, pointing a finger at me and cursing at the top of his lungs. He still blames me for his loss, and is not willing to hear reason after so many years. This goes on for a couple of minutes, and my consistent efforts to dissipate his rage prove futile. Finally, in a moment of anger, regret, helplessness and sheer, all-out frustration, I snap. I start to yell over his shouting. I tell him that I’ve had enough, that I can’t stand to be continuously berated for something that happened many, many years ago. I offer him an ultimatum: Shut up and move on, or kill me. I tell him that this ceaseless badgering is not something I wish to endure for a minute longer. I’m sorry for what happened, but this haunting reminder,, particularly this in-the-flesh kind, has plagued me for long enough. If it will make him happy, in terms of providing some sense of retribution, I tell him to go ahead and put me out of this imposed misery. The dream ends with me waking up, not knowing if the aggrieved gentleman took me up on my offer.
Late into the night, as all of us vendors are packing up and at various stages of heading home for some well earned rest, our stall-neighbors call out to us. Theirs is a large family, eight children large, all of them younger than twelve years of age. The kids’ father asks if one of us can help out with getting the kids and their mother back home. My father volunteers me proudly, and I set out to do a good job, making up my mind to fulfill the mission I have been asked to carry out with aplomb. Our neighbors own a cycle rickshaw that seats the whole family comfortably; the reason they can’t all travel together is that the father decides to stay back late to make some extra money catering to the “midnight crowd”. Having been thrust the responsibility of transporting these kids safely, and after getting them to sit down without creating too much of a ruckus, we begin our journey home. SCREEEECH!!! BLAM!!!
A lorry comes out of nowhere and sends us all flying in different directions. The aftermath? All eight children and their mother perish in the accident. But I, well, I emerge without a scratch. Their father, obviously distraught, blames me for the entire thing. The guilt is almost unbearable, especially when you add to it the constant stream of invective that the grieving father continues to hurl at me.
The last scene, with a quick sort of cinematographic flash-forward, begins with me, looking very old. I seem to have retired happily, and I’m standing in front of what I recognize as my father’s ancestral home in Mahe. I’m standing out front having a casual conversation with a friend, on a beautifully sunny day. Sud
denly, from out of the blue, the vendor - father to the family that perished in the accident for which I was responsible - bursts onto the scene, pointing a finger at me and cursing at the top of his lungs. He still blames me for his loss, and is not willing to hear reason after so many years. This goes on for a couple of minutes, and my consistent efforts to dissipate his rage prove futile. Finally, in a moment of anger, regret, helplessness and sheer, all-out frustration, I snap. I start to yell over his shouting. I tell him that I’ve had enough, that I can’t stand to be continuously berated for something that happened many, many years ago. I offer him an ultimatum: Shut up and move on, or kill me. I tell him that this ceaseless badgering is not something I wish to endure for a minute longer. I’m sorry for what happened, but this haunting reminder,, particularly this in-the-flesh kind, has plagued me for long enough. If it will make him happy, in terms of providing some sense of retribution, I tell him to go ahead and put me out of this imposed misery. The dream ends with me waking up, not knowing if the aggrieved gentleman took me up on my offer.This was rather intense, as far as dreams go, and I woke up panting and wiping sweat from my brow. Wow!
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