If Dreams Were True

“Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly.” 
― Langston Hughes

Courtesy: Ron Leishman

Yesterday I dreamt a dream. Subconscious, they say, play an important role in its origin. But it was a consciously subconscious dream. I was flipping the web pages to gather information about the city of Melbourne just to try and write something worthwhile to submit an article on Melbourne in IndiBlogger. Soon the information cluttered up my brain and the bawl within gradually subsided when I let myself leave the idea of scribbling a story. Rather, it was easier for me to seek recluse on my sofa for a catnap. It was then when I dreamt the most colourful dream of my life.

A race course- all in black, white or shades of grey. A horse was running. I know him. He was the icon of a country reeling under the Great Depression preceding  World War-II. He is the famous Phar Lap, the champion thoroughbred racehorse. Each of his muscles expanding in exuberance of the race; each turgid veins throbs in victory’s own blood, upon the turf where he is winning one of the 37 races that he has won. The race faded out. I saw him encased in a glass case in the Melbourne Museum, cold, still and breathless. The woody ambiance has its sheen but somewhere spews deep sad sighs- sighs from the lungs fed by the 14 lb heart that is still preserved in Canberra National Museum. His heart stopped on 5^th April, 1932 in America, where he ran his last race and was poisoned by a lethal dose of Arsenic. The window of hope was closed suddenly in the island continent thousand miles away.

The green race course suddenly changed into a stadium. I have seen this arena. It’s the MCG. I saw Steve Waugh walking down the pitch, collars up, with an aura of restrained flamboyance. One of the most successful captains the Aussies have ever produced. But I adore him for a completely different reason. It’s his philanthropic works down here in Kolkata. His NGO, UDAYAN, has been instrumental in setting up of a Leprosy Center for the girl child here in Nepalgunj, at the outskirts of the city of joy. A blind school has been set up two years later by him. An invisible bridge was built by this magnanimous soul which connected my city to the one which can boast of having the oldest sporting club in Australia; yes the Melbourne Cricket Club (Estd-1838). Tagged to it were interactive shows of National Sports Museum, East Melbourne (http://www.visitmelbourne.com/regions/Melbourne/Activities-and-attractions/Art-theatre-and-culture/Museums-and-libraries/National-Sports-Museum.aspx ). The 3D theatrical experience  of Shane Warne’s “Cricket found me” was flippantly passing through my eyes where I could see his ominous googlies but couldn’t comprehend what he said in the Australian accent.

 The MCG has somewhere merged with the Eden Gardens, The Hugli has meandered its way into the Yarra River; the “tom-toms” of Kolkata trams has merged with the sounds of the suave Yarra Trams; the Victorian Arts Centre at the South bank precincts finds a strange companion in our own Academy of Fine Arts, The Melbourne Theater Company stand cheek by jowl with our own Rabindra Sadan. Both being the cultural capital of their respective countries, I found a strange undertone of similarity that exists in visually dissimilar periphery.

Courtesy : http://www.visitmelbourne.com/in

A boat cruises along the Yarra and seeing the ships moored in the piers in the dockyard at Williams Town with vessels plying to and fro in the Hobsons Bay as I walk upon the Beach street has a strange resemblance with my frequent stroll  upon  our own Strand Road.

The known chime of the doorbell brought me back to the hard real world, which escaped for a few moments upon the soft sofa. I looked through the window and the urban ennui slapped my drowsy vision. 

Moments before Melbourne didn't seem too far from my own city, but now it seems far-far away.