When I was younger I was taught that our dreams and ambitions are to be kept secret from the world, as if speaking about them would make them dissolve among the heavy particles of reality and they would evaporate forever.
But then shouldn't our dreams become reality? Shouldn't we finally learn how to speak about them, scream about them, cry about them so that maybe somewhere far beyond the horizon somebody would listen and understand.
I have this silly little dream of mine that started many years back over a cup of tea shared in one of those tea stall by the side of the road. That tea stall was located under the tree and just like that tree the dream has also grew bigger by now and I wish one day it could become reality...
There is a village with thousands of trees not very far from the city. I wake up in the morning and the brown cat begins to purr right into my ear. He has many new companions to chase - other cats, dogs, squirrels, donkeys, even an elephant that looks bemused whenever he sees this miniature of a tiger roaming around the fields. (The grey cat started meowing- he also wants to be present in this dream).
I can hear a murmur coming from the building next door. It is a school that gives free education to village children. But it is not an ordinary school where children are forced to memorize and reproduce all those meaningless formulas and rules prescribed by the text books. They are taught to explore the world around them, to touch the trees, to write letters to kids in a school thousand kilometers away. They are taught that humans are to be valued for who they are and not for what they look like or how much they have. They know who Irom Sharmila is, and what 'deforestation estation due to mining means'. They know that negro and chinki are offensive words and that they have to be grateful to the cobbler because if it hadn't been for him who else would have repaired their shoes? They learn how to create things and speak about things that touch them. They dance and act, sing and paint.
There is a small rehearsal space in the other building. Nothing fancy. Colourful walls, pictures, photos, cane chairs. People rehearse there. Some people stay in few houses around that space. The houses are painted in various colours. The marks of palms dipped in paint create design on the walls.
One wall is white and once a week people gather to watch films screened from a cheap second hand projector that somebody found at a flea market.
The chirping of birds in the morning and the smell of flowers at night.
I'm standing facing the lake. It has this strange pale blue colour. I can feel somebody's eyes looking at me as I turn...
"Sounds good" he said. I think I'd rather have him say "let's try to make it together".
But then shouldn't our dreams become reality? Shouldn't we finally learn how to speak about them, scream about them, cry about them so that maybe somewhere far beyond the horizon somebody would listen and understand.
I have this silly little dream of mine that started many years back over a cup of tea shared in one of those tea stall by the side of the road. That tea stall was located under the tree and just like that tree the dream has also grew bigger by now and I wish one day it could become reality...
There is a village with thousands of trees not very far from the city. I wake up in the morning and the brown cat begins to purr right into my ear. He has many new companions to chase - other cats, dogs, squirrels, donkeys, even an elephant that looks bemused whenever he sees this miniature of a tiger roaming around the fields. (The grey cat started meowing- he also wants to be present in this dream).
I can hear a murmur coming from the building next door. It is a school that gives free education to village children. But it is not an ordinary school where children are forced to memorize and reproduce all those meaningless formulas and rules prescribed by the text books. They are taught to explore the world around them, to touch the trees, to write letters to kids in a school thousand kilometers away. They are taught that humans are to be valued for who they are and not for what they look like or how much they have. They know who Irom Sharmila is, and what 'deforestation estation due to mining means'. They know that negro and chinki are offensive words and that they have to be grateful to the cobbler because if it hadn't been for him who else would have repaired their shoes? They learn how to create things and speak about things that touch them. They dance and act, sing and paint.
There is a small rehearsal space in the other building. Nothing fancy. Colourful walls, pictures, photos, cane chairs. People rehearse there. Some people stay in few houses around that space. The houses are painted in various colours. The marks of palms dipped in paint create design on the walls.
One wall is white and once a week people gather to watch films screened from a cheap second hand projector that somebody found at a flea market.
The chirping of birds in the morning and the smell of flowers at night.
I'm standing facing the lake. It has this strange pale blue colour. I can feel somebody's eyes looking at me as I turn...
"Sounds good" he said. I think I'd rather have him say "let's try to make it together".
