|Burning dreams of the subconscience|
For as long as I can recall I have needed eight hours sleep at night; not counting the fact that I can fall asleep in moving vehicles of any kind. I love trains, the constant moving, shaking, rattling and rolling of the Indian Railways—on the Rajdhani’s chair cars, the Shatabdi’s second-class, three-tier sleeper cars where I would immediately lay stake to the top berth, pretending to be on top of the world while my mum & dad peered up anxiously to make sure that I would not fall out—it was the closest I came to recapturing the comforting the cocoon of my mother’s womb. Would it surprise you if I were to say that I actually remember being in the womb, being clad in layer upon layer of affection shot through with strands of fear, delight and an absolute terror of the unknown. Much like what I feel myself now on wondering what it would be like if I were to become a mother. For one, I would need to sleep, I know I would probably double my quote from eight, to what? Ten, sixteen? A life spent asleep? Comatose; falling into suspended animation, to wake up—like Rip Van Winkle—in the next millennium or perhaps on another planet. Yes, that would be the stuff my reality is made of. Am I actually a somnambulist then? For it is when I am asleep that I am the most awake.
As I wrote my first novel, the last one-hundred-and-fifty pages written in three weeks, the most powerful well-spring of imagination were my power naps. When after having written fifteen pages in a spurt, I would feel the energy leak out of me into the ground and when no amount of sweetened-masala-chai would prop my eyes open, I would use my last conscious thought to crawl down to my basement bedroom, slip in-between the covers and setting my mind to work on the puzzle of the plot, I would let myself drift into the upper realms. Suspended between the dimensions above and yet anchoring my feet firmly into the ground below I would wait…for the visions to come; the dreams from my childhood intertwined with memories past, all shot through with futuristic inklings, my instinct going into overdrive, I would sit up awake suddenly—to realise that my fifteen minute power nap had taken me on a trip into outerspace from which I had returned with Eureka! That was it! Resolution atleast for this act. How I have longed to be like one of those super-people who could survive on just four or five or six hours sleep. But then it is perhaps being able to drift almost instantly into the dark where I can plumb the depths of my sub-consciousness that makes me a writer after all.