Dreams have troubled human beings in the strangest ways. They play the trickiest games and often act in the most insensitive manner. Like wisps of cloud and shards of glass they are impossible to gather, consolidate and capture. Yet they have us well and truly under their spell. These flippant guardians of our sleep and wakefulness often inspire outrageous actions and funny reactions.
My tryst with dreams is an ongoing process. They catch me unawares and besiege my plans and objectives. Often I’m transported from my immediate surrounding to unknown destinations without any authentic geographical dimensions. Last Tuesday as I was trying to fit myself into an extremely serious situation, suddenly all my efforts went awry. The grim location of the Prentice Hall gave way to a colourful mix of baroque architecture, little cafes, an intricate network of canals and a medley of fashionable people travelling through a haze of smoke. The picture was so vivid that I decided to take my reverie seriously and give it a significant thought. I got so absorbed in the scene that soon the Prentice Hall and the editorial meeting turned into a distant affair, incapable of affecting my scheme of thought in any way. I became a part of the elite crowd, strutting about in expensive fur and high-heeled boots, flitting past specimens of Gothic architecture and taking in the sights, sounds and (all kinds of) substances of an enchanted land. The mild breeze rejuvenated my jaded mind and the sun shone on me with the promise of a great experience. The soft strain of European classical music wafted in the air; the sweet smell of a wild weed hung persistently within the walls of the room.
Dreams seldom come with a face or a tag. They are best not to be labelled or categorized. But this one was too good to let go of. So I decided to assign a name to the magic that touched me briefly and held out fascinating prospects. A quick session of Google search took me to a small temperate city ensconced in the beautiful lowland country of