The Dreamseller

Summer shone on his forehead as he entered the lane. Had there been sunflowers instead of roses, they would have followed him. But roses they were so they watched him walk upon the yellow film of dust that afternoon. His shrill voice frightened off the few sparrows that were resting at a transparent wire. And he moved as if in a delirium. His eyes didn’t blink, nor did his voice quiver, and he kept walking on the thin yellow film of dust, toward me. He grew bigger every moment, his feet outgrowing the dust, his eyes still unblinking and his voice even shriller. He stopped in front of our house and sang.

Red and Blue, Pink and Green,

White and Orange, with the morning gleam,

Ladies and gentlemen, here I come,

With all the Colours that you need to dream.

He was singing still when I came out from behind the window. I saw his eyes first, then his forehead without the halo. He had stopped singing. His teeth glistened and he bent forward to open his rucksack.

Come here lad, I heard him saying.

“Would you like to have some dreams?” He asked.

I had never thought that dreams could be sold in a grey rucksack. It was unbelievable still that a street hawker had a bag full of dreams. How could he? I was told that every man has his own share of dreams, that you can’t peep into others’ nor can anyone steal yours. But there was this man with a bag full of other people’s dreams. And how did he exactly know that I required one?

“They are all mine,” he said when I asked him if he hadn’t stolen them.

“I have been savouring them since I was a child.” He said with a wide grin on his face. He did not have a beard but mango leaves on his cheeks that moved every time the other shadows flickered on ground.

“Mama told me I have to go see the doctor for my dreams,” I said. “That’s why she has brought me here, to my grandma’s house.”

“But doctors don’t have this bag,” he said, pointing to his grey rucksack. “And they don’t know anything about dreams. Those poor creatures can’t even tell the difference between black and red dreams.”

I didn’t know till that day that dreams came in different colours.

“Oh yes they do.” The man said, feeling genuinely sorry for my ignorance. “They come in all colours except purple.”

“Why not purple?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He said. “I am just an old man selling dreams.”

“Now don’t you want one?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said and he started loosening a black cord from the neck of his bag. It smelled of good old wood when he opened the bag, a strong smell of unpolished wood. His eyes glittered as he looked inside, like he hadn’t seen them for ages. His hands trembled and voice broke, perhaps with fear, when he turned to look at me.

“Which colour do you want, my lad?” He asked.

“White, may be.” I said.

“Yes of course. White dreams are the best. They don’t scare you but then they aren’t as exciting as the yellow ones. How about green? They are suitable for a boy your age, or red perhaps, exhilarating and dangerous.”

‘I think I’ll settle with a white dream.” I said, more out of fear than curiosity.

“White it is then,” he said and slid his bare arms inside the rucksack. It rattled inside the bag while he was looking for my dreams. It rattled even more when he stuck his head inside the bag and looked for the white one. It rattled like tin cans and tin cans they were. He came out of his bag with a white tin can. It didn’t rattle any more.

“There you go,” said he. “Here’s your white dream.”

“What am I supposed to do with it?” I asked.

“Why then, dream it my boy. What else do you think are dreams for?” He said with a happy face, tightening the black cord of his rucksack. 

“How do I pay you?” I asked.

“No one pays me,” he said. “No one had ever paid me.” He said again.

I saw his grey bag swinging from side to side at his back while he walked on the yellow dust, singing in his thick hoarse voice, getting smaller until the corner where he turned and everything of him disappeared.

I had the white dream still in my hands when mama called me. It was time to go to the doctor. Saturday it was, of course. I hid the can in a drawer and looked at her. She looked sad. She always looked sad when she looked at me. But then she always looked sad when she looked at grandma as well. Grandma probably died of sadness, I think. But mama says a fishbone stuck in grandma’s throat when she was young and it grew inside her until finally it choked her to death. Why fish bones don’t choke fish, I think.

“It’s time,” mama said and we went to the doctor. She said I’ll be fine.

“But I’m fine,” said I and she looked at me with her sad eyes.

‘Yes, you’re fine.” She said. Mama was sad as ever.

I couldn’t keep my thoughts away from the tin can in my drawer throughout the way to the doctor’s. Oh how excited I was that day.

“Let me see you eyes,” the doctor said. Then he knocked at my joints with a tiny yellow hammer. Let me see your eyes, he said again, and then he knocked at my joints with the yellow hammer once more.

Why is he doing the same things over and over again, I think.

“Let me see your eyes,” he said again and I looked at mama. She looked sad, as ever.

“You’ll be fine,” he said and I nodded.

“I’m fine,” I told the doctor.

Mama said she felt like walking so we walked back home that evening. We walked upon yellow dust, passed a few chicken stalls, and finally entered the lane where sparrows were still sitting on a transparent wire. Why do they always sit in a queue, I think. Then I looked at mama. She wasn’t as sad as she was at the doctor’s. It is the visit to the doctor that makes her sad, I say to myself.

Back home, when mama cooked supper, I was thinking of the many white dreams inside the can. I took it out of the drawer to examine. A cheap tin can painted white all over was what I had in my hands. There was nothing extraordinary about it. It didn’t even smell of dreams. What if it turns out to be empty, I think. So I shook it and it rattled, like it was rattling inside the old man’s rucksack.

‘What’s that noise?” mama asked from the kitchen.

“Nothing,” I lied. It made me feel bad whenever I lied to mama so I went to the kitchen and told her that I was rattling my dreams.

“You’ll be fine,” she said.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Mama slept in grandma’s room that night. I assumed they wanted to be together for a while.

“Good night,” she said. “You’ll be fine.” She looked sadder in the moonlight.

“Good night mama.”

Mama had left the door ajar so I rattled the can ever more slightly before opening it. Now a thick white shadow will emerge and I’ll get back my dreams, I thought. But no shadows came out of the can. Nothing happened for a long time. I waited till midnight but nothing happened. What was rattling inside the can then, I thought. Had the old man bluffed me? I cursed myself. I should have known it. Dreams don’t come in colours.

“You’ll be fine,” I heard mama saying.

“I’m fine mama,” I said and slept with mama’s sadness.

I remember falling asleep after midnight, when the sparrows had tired of sitting at that transparent wire. I saw mama in the kitchen. She was wearing white. I was wearing white too. The old man was wearing white as well. And he was singing. Mama was also singing in the kitchen. She wasn’t sad though, nor was grandma’s picture that mama said was taken when they had the first camera in house. I saw myself in a green shirt and black suspenders, with a cap recently bought at some fair. It had a white feather tucked on its left. And I was walking down the road on a thin film of yellow dust. Oh, wasn’t I happy? I was in a dream after all.

I woke up at the break of dawn. The can was still at my side, its mouth wide open. It was filled with a number of plastic wrapped toffees, the ones that kids enjoy. I hid it in the drawer when mama entered.

“Good morning my child,” mama said.

“Here, take your pills,” she said.

“But I’m fine mama,” I said.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, still looking sad. The dream hadn’t affected her at all, I think. But she was there, wasn’t she. I have to talk to the old man again, I think. There had to be other dreams in his rucksack, dreams of my mama perhaps. What colour would they be, I thought.

“Come on now,” mama said. “Get up.”

I got up that morning to wait for the old man. I insisted to wear green shirt and black suspenders. Since there wasn’t any cap with a feather on it so I waited for the old man by the window without a cap. Mama wasn’t singing though.

At noon the sparrows flew in from somewhere to sit on the transparent wire in a queue. I couldn’t tell if they were the same ones from yesterday. What about the yellow dust? Was it the same as yesterday? I didn’t know. How could I know? So I waited for the old man’s voice. He would soon take a turn at the corner, with summer shining on his forehead, singing songs of colourful dreams. I thought of yellow, mama’s favourite colour. The old man did say something of yellow dreams. So I waited.

Noon came and went away like a yellow butterfly, slipped into a grey sky without noise, but the old man didn’t come. Was it a Sunday, I thought. But salesmen don’t have Sundays, I think again.

“Mama, do salesmen have Sundays?” I ask mama at supper.

“Why, everyone has it.” She said.

“Tomorrow then,” I said to myself and went to sleep.

I had yet another dream that night. Everyone was singing including me. Grandma had come down from her picture but she still lacked colour and her face bore the scratches of her picture. She didn’t sing though, probably due to the fish bone in her throat. She seemed happy for the time.

I got up early next morning. It was Monday. The old man was sure to come. He didn’t have any more excuse. Or did he? I waited for him by the window. I waited for the old man by the window for six long afternoons, each as an identical successor to itself, hot and yellow as ever, unchanging, like a portrait. But the old man was missing with his bag full of dreams. I realized it only on Saturday afternoon that he wouldn’t come.

It made me sad but I had more important things at hand. I had to make sure that the white can survived, that I kept on having dreams in which everyone sang. May be white dreams are for singing, I think. It would have been great to have a rainbow coloured dream, a mixture of everything, I thought again. It was not that bad to dream of my colourless grandma every now and then. Mama looked happy too. Didn’t she? I thought of the several possibilities that might not have been had the old man never arrived. I would have kept on living without dreams. Worse, mama wouldn’t have sung wearing white in the kitchen. And, I could never have heard grandma’s voice.

But I could not have kept the secret to myself. The tin can had to be revealed. Mama would have understood. So I took the can out of drawer that Sunday and showed it to mama.

“What is it my boy,” she said.

“These are my dreams, mama. White dreams in which everyone sings.” I told her and looked at her disappointed face.

“Why, of course, they are,” she said, coming down to kiss my forehead. I can clearly tell that she was crying.