Help! I am becoming like Wally!

Except that I don't eat ham sandwiches....

The tortoise

In our final year of college, three friends and I, enthused by the lovely Tanishq ads in the papers, decided to visit a Tanishq showroom and do some window-shopping. Shopping with money was out of the question at that stage of our poor lives, so window-shopping it was. One friend was slightly reluctant to go in and just look at everything and come out, so to make her feel comfortable, we concocted a story of our "colleague" getting married, and we going to buy a diamond pendant for her.

The story worked well, and varieties of pendants were being shown to us, while all we wanted to do was gawk at the gold and diamond necklaces, which were on display in the next room. We painfully enacted our drama, and then pretended we did not like any of them, and then casually set out to look at the other bigger stuff. I walked up to the diamond necklaces and spotted a particularly pretty one.

My curiosity got the better of me, and I pointed at the necklace, and asked the salesgirl casually, and with as much confidence as possible, "How much does that cost?"
The salesgirl looked at me quizzically. "Which one?" she asked.
"That one, third from left, with the number 5-8-0-0-0-0 written underneath it".
She smiled sweetly "That's the price ma'am".
My jaw hit the floor. I saw the salesgirl smiling at me ever so politely, but I saw the glint of amusement in her eyes. And then I wished I were a tortoise....

It was the annual day at school. I saw our Kannada teacher, dragging along a little girl. I went up to her with a couple of my classmates, vowing to spread a little of the butter.
"Oh... howww sweeeet", I gushed. She smiled nice and wide.
"Grand-daughter, ma'am?"
The smile froze. "No, daughter", she said.
The night suddenly became cold. I quickly recovered.
"Ohhhh!" I was suddenly all bubbly and effervescent. "Such a sweeet child! She looks jussssst like you!" And I took the little girl by the hand and played with her for ten minutes, and then delivered her back to her mom, smiling brightly. Yet, she looked daggers at me, and then I wished I were a tortoise.....

My classmate C once challenged me to jump down a flight of stairs. It was lunchtime. I stood on the top step, and eyed the landing. C was standing on the landing, watching me. I could hear steps behind me, and I spread out my hands, motioning for whoever was behind me, to stand still and wait until I jumped. I concentrated on the landing, and then took one look at C before I jumped. She was gesturing to me desperately, but it did not really register. I was already in the air. I landed safely on the landing (see, that's why its called a landing), and looked triumphantly at C, whose eyes were averted.

Suspicious, I looked behind me immediately, and there coming down the steps, with a smile in the corner of his lips, was our Sanskrit teacher, infamous for his quick temper. "Practicing for the Olympics?" he muttered, while he walked past. There was laughter all around and then I wished I were a tortoise.....

..So that I could just withdraw into my shell and pretend I were a rock.

Goodbye and thanks for all the bliss.

In a span of a few days - two giants have passed on. One made glorious music, and the other made fantastic movies.

When I heard about Ustad Bismillah Khan's death, I found a tear in my eye. Music does that to you. It touches your inner being, and naturally the musician who gave you that music becomes close to your heart. He stops being a photo on your CD, and becomes "Bismillah". You know - the old man next door. He was a loveable, toothless old man with the toothy grin (Figure that out!), who fondly lifted a Shehnai in his frail-looking hands, put it to his lips, and proceeded to create magic. With that image in mind, at his death, I found that I was feeling very sad. It was naturally made even worse by the plaintive notes of his Shehnai in the background when they were talking about him on television.

Though I cannot recall a particular Raag or piece of his which is my favourite, I can simply say that I loved his music. Sometimes melancholy, sometimes lively - it was always beautiful. Whether you were listening closely or absent-mindedly, it was anyway pleasing. And to think he said something like "Music is an ocean - I have just touched the surface". Humility, wit, and above all - his utter disregard for religion - it is people like him who have the ability to bring people of all religions together!

As for the fabulous Hrishikesh Mukherjee - if I make a top twenty favourite Hindi movie list, I am sure that 6-7 in that list will be his movies. That easily makes him my favourite film-maker. Even though the director is not really visible when you watch a movie, Hrishikesh Mukherjee was the kind whose touch you could feel in his the movies. You could watch a movie and say - that seems like a Hrishikesh Mukherjee movie - and you will be right.

And what movies!! Each one of them is a masterpiece. Anuradha, for example, is a favourite of all the elders in my family, and apparently, a certain member of our family was named after the protagonist in the movie. ;) Then Anupama - with Dharmendra looking drop-dead handsome, and Sharmila Tagore exquisite - the music, the settings - the movie.. wow! Anari was one of the first Raj Kapoor movies I watched - and just loved the simplicity and the sweetness of the story. Then there is Guddi - an extremely lovable movie with the young and innocent, starstruck Jaya Bhaduri - a movie that I can watch any number of times.

And then Bawarchi and Chupke Chupke - laugh riots, both of them. Mili and Khubsurat, which I rank a little lower than his other movies, are excellent nonetheless. As for Abhimaan - with the brooding Amitabh Bachchan jealous of his talented wife - a beautifully made movie. And his last one - Jhooth Bole Kauwa Kaate - I know that not many people liked it - but I wonder why - I thought it was great - with Anil Kapoor, Juhi Chawla and Amrish Puri at their funniest!

I keep the best for the last - Anand and Golmaal -- one tragic, the other comic - but both of them are right on top of my all-time favourite list, jostling each other for first place. Both of them are priceless, in their own way. No other movie in Bollywood can even come close to these two.

Since I seem to be at a total loss for words, I will just guide you to an excellent write-up on Hrishikesh Mukherjee's movies.

These two stalwarts have given us hours of happiness - and though they are gone, their work is still here. What else can I say to them? Just "Thank You".

The human tree.

I was fascinated by fairy tales as a kid and devoured them by the dozens.

But there was one thing I never did understand. Many of these stories had this innocent little kid who is lost in the forest, more often than not, by the evil designs of a wicked stepmother. When the child wanders around the forest, s/he comes across menacing-looking trees which (to the child) seem to have a life of their own, and which wave their arms and make eerie noises, and scare the child stiff. I found it funny that anybody could be scared by a tree. To take things further, the imaginative artists drew dark, frightening trees, which actually had eyes and a nose and a mouth. I scoffed at it all the time - please, there couldn't be trees like those in reality!

Until last month. On a weekend walk in Lalbagh, I came across this tree - and I could have sworn that it has eyes and a nose, and even a mouth with a grimace. If I had been a child and had seen it in twilight, I am sure I would have fled the scene. Mr Andersen, Messrs Grimm, and all you noble fairy tale writers, I apologize for having doubted you. You knew exactly what you were saying!

Thames and Zebras

My sis P and I are, as usual, occupied in pulling our little cousin V's leg. V, who has been in the UK for a year or so now, can now speak in a “prop-ah” British accent when he so chooses. He started off correcting our pronunciation for certain English names, but the last straw was when he told us that Zebra is not "Zee-bra", but "Zeh-bra".

So, like all big sisters do, we engaged ourselves in torturing the little fellow.

P - Akka, do you think there are any Zee-bras near the Thay-ms [1] in London?

V - It is not Thay-ms! It is "Tems"! And I already told you that it is Zeh-bra.

S - I don't really know - maybe there are lots of them in Ree-ding [2] and Nor-witch [3].

V - It is Red-ing! And Nor-ich! I already told you!

P - I am sure there are some in Lie-cester [4]. Or in Burk-shire [5].

V - Stop it! Stop it!! It is Lester!! And Bark-shire!

S - Aww, come on, V! If the British could come over and call Srirangapatnam "Seringapatam", and Chitradurga "Chitldrug", then we most definitely have the right to call Edinburgh "Edin-burg". At least we are true to the spelling.

V - *Claps his hands over his ears* It is Edin-bra!! Amma! Amma! Look at these two girls! They don't know anything!

V's mom - Oh, that's ok, V - they are just teasing you. Naughty, aren't they? We'll teach them a lesson. Let's just chuck them into the Thay-ms.

V - Aaaaargghhhhhh!!!!

And it continues ........

NOTES:
[1] Thames
[2] Reading
[3] Norwich
[4] Leicester
[5] Berkshire

Papeeha - The first whiff of romance.

I grew up in a township with dozens of other kids - and not one day was dull. But as we turned into teenagers, I saw to my horror that my friends, with whom I had always been on the same wavelength, were turning into movie-buffs. They spoke incessantly about movies and songs and Anil Kapoor's moustache and Madhuri Dixit's smile. I could speak volumes about Mark Twain and the Mahabharatha, but my friends would have nothing to do with a girl who thought that "Chandni ribbons" looked like mosquito nets.

It got worse. Childish giggles turned into dreamy sighs as I saw my once-sane friends walking around looking moonstruck and claiming that romance had entered their lives. A bunch of them claimed that the love in QSQT was the purest of them all, while two others were in love with the love in Maine Pyar Kiya. Some of them swore by Roja. And on top of all that, they asked me, ME, which movie introduced romance to me. I offered a tentative "Errr... The Sound of Music?"... and it sealed my fate further as the girl who doesn't know anything about Bollywood.

I have never been much of a movie-goer, but there were some movies I loved. Some brought laughter, some brought tears, but "Romance"? What was that?

And then, one night, Doordarshan screened Papeeha. And Romance, with a capital R, tiptoed into my life.

Papeeha is a wonderful, little-known, movie, made by that fabulous film-maker Sai Paranjpye. Winnie Paranjpye plays an anthropologist who goes to the forests to study tribals. There she meets the dashing Milind Gunaji, who plays a forest officer. In the course of the movie, they fall in love, and after a brief misunderstanding, they get together again. A simple, sweet, love story.

But the movie totally swept me off my feet. It was a strong, heady feeling, and it made me feel that I was the heroine and it was I who met the hero and fell in love with him. I saw myself in the dainty shoes of the very charming Winnie Paranjpye, she of the sparkling eyes and impish smile. I went with her to the forest, and was overwhelmed by the presence of the brooding, serious and handsome Milind Gunaji. I was a part of their witty conversations, recognized their love before either of them acknowledged it, agonized over their misunderstandings, and exulted at their reunion.

I don't know what did it. It might have been the unlikely location for the story - a forest, a village. It could have been the absence of complications - no villains, no strict parents, no interfering relatives, no slapstick comedy, no atrocious makeup, no grandiose settings. It could have been the stark contrast between the energetic, loveable and sweet heroine and the arrogant, egoistic, carelessly stylish hero. Oh, it could have even been that both the hero and the heroine were not at all glamourous in the conventional sense, and that made them so real, so attractive. It could have even been the fact that both of them had definite, unambiguous occupations. It could have been the underlying theme - of saving the forests, the life of the tribals.

Or more likely, it could even have been the simple fact that I was at a silly, sentimental, vulnerable age. Or it could just be the magic of Sai Paranjpye at work.

But whatever it was, it became one of my favourite movies. And it still is, even after I have watched hundreds of movies ever since. I haven't watched this movie again, nor have I even heard of it being spoken of, and I haven't even met anybody who has watched the movie. [Even now, in the age of Google and internet, I wasn't able to find any info on the movie - except for a few lines on the subject of the movie]. What a gigantic pity.

And oh, when the movie was screened, Milind Gunaji was an unknown actor. I had missed his name in the titles, and agonized over the name of the actor for a very long time. So, it was a pleasant surprise when I saw him in the trailer of Fareb. I lost no time in finding out who he is, and then finally, I put the name on the face.

So at last, I had something to tell my friends. "Papeeha" brought romance into my life, I said. But it didn't really make any difference. Nobody had heard of the movie, and the actors were nobodies. I was still the boring girl, until we all grew up and knew better ;).

Anyway, Papeeha is a beautiful movie! I would love to watch it again [and find out what effect it will have on me now, after more than ten years!]

Celebration

Anil makes a call to celebrate the anniversaries of two momentous occasions.

This year is the 75th anniversary of the martyrdom of Bhagat Singh and his comrades. It has passed almost unnoticed. No official functions to mark the occasion. No commemorative postage stamp, no portrait or statue to honour them and remember with gratitude the ‘supreme sacrifice’ of a band of young men committed to the cause of freedom.

Another occasion is close at hand and plans don’t seem to be afoot to celebrate that either. Next year is the 150th anniversary of the First War of Indian Independence. We were taught about it in the terms in which the British colonial historians referred to it – the Sepoy Mutiny. (sipaayi dange in Kannada, the language in which I had my school education). The name itself tried to trivialise the great uprising that resulted from a spontaneous upsurge of nationalist and anti colonial feelings. Since it had its origins in the colonial army, it was easy for them to refer to it as a mutiny, a mere a matter of discipline and quell it.

Wonder why this neglect of these historic occasions and their anniversaries? Is the revolutionary spirit passé? Is the idea of people thinking and who might be inspired by these events and stand up to authority too subversive for the people who hold power and who they hold it for?

He makes a request:

We the people shall celebrate the anniversaries of these momentous events. What the government seems to be ignoring, we shall celebrate in our own way.

Please copy the image above and put it in your own blog, along with this request.

Thank you!

If you also feel as strongly about this, then please spread the word around!

Update: Emma has a very interesting post where she points out that, this year, in fact, is the 200th anniversary of the "real" First War of Independence, otherwise known as the Vellore Mutiny, which happened in 1806. And this hasn't even found a place in our history books (at least not in ours). Do check out the post.

Reading is an abominable hobby.

*Waits for the furor to die down, and then continues*

You must know by now, that I love books. Give me a book and a corner to curl up in, and you can easily forget my existence [except at mealtimes, when you will be painfully reminded of it.] If someone tells me, "Go ahead and read for the rest of your life, all your needs will be taken care of", I will do just that. Go ahead and proceed to read. And read. And read.

So now, why is reading abominable? That's because when it's as passionate as a hobby as it is for me, you wouldn't prefer to do anything else other than read.

I love to sing, I love to sketch, I like to go out for walks. I love to meet people, I like to keep my house clean, but the problem is that I'd rather read than do any of these things. I have a truckload of dresses I cannot wear, because they don't have matching dupattas/accessories, coz I'd rather read then go out and look for them.

In fact, I didn't take up writing as a hobby for very long, because I felt I would prefer to read instead. [So, it is quite a wonder that this is my 100th post on this blog, not a mean achievement for someone who refused to start a blog coz "she didn't have anything to write about."]

My problem is that I read everything that can be read. I read signboards when I am on the road. I read idiotic ad posters while waiting my turn in a queue. I even read stuff like articles on how well Hum Aapke Hain Koun is doing, in a 1995 India Today while waiting at the doctor's! For heavens' sake, I even read the stuff on the paper covers made of magazine pages, in which they wrap bananas or medicines!

Sometimes it gets very irritating. It is as if there is a demon inside me which has to be sated. When I lived in TamilNadu for a while, I went crazy for a while coz I couldn't read Tamil signboards when I travelled. So I went ahead and learnt how to read and write Tamil, and the demon inside was happy.

When my sister needs to talk to me, she first clears the place of all reading material (and food), and only then talks to me. Coz it is only then that she gets my complete attention. Poor kid.

Sometimes, I have to confess, it is an escapist technique too. Something bothering me? Something unpleasant happening? Drown myself in a book.

As much pleasure as reading gives me, sometimes I wish I had never been introduced to books. I would have had so much time to do other things! An uncle once told me about his friend who doesn't read, his reasoning being that he would rather go out and experience life, rather than experience others' lives. I had scoffed at it at that time, but now I think he did have a point.

Oh I know, I know, all that I need to do is strike the right balance. Give the demon as much reading as it wishes, but wake up and give as much importance to the other things in life. Oh, I do have my priorities in order. I don't neglect important things, blah blah. But when something can be avoided, I most certainly do.

But, as they say, a problem recognized, is half-solved. I intend to cut down on reading drastically, and start smelling the flowers. I've even taken a few first steps. I have bought drawing sheets and pencils. I am going to leave my Tanpura/Tamboori at the music shop tonight, to get it repaired, and will resume singing once it is ready. I intend to even find a tailor and get all my dresses and gift sarees in order (most disgusting of tasks, but yet). Wish me the best, please.

What I want from Google

I don't have enough words to describe what Google means to me. I can't think how I went through life before Google. Or for that matter, before the Internet. Or to think of it - before the computer. Or, before the.... Ok... I can go on till I get to The Wheel, so I'll stop right now.

Anyway, what I want to say is that Google is an integral part of my life. I find myself depending upon Google for everything - to the extent that Google has made me lazy. Anyway, I don't expect that I am saying anything new.

But. There is a lot that Google cannot do yet. And I am waiting for the day when a search engine comes along with capabilities that I am about to enumerate.

1) There is a creepy-crawly that lives in our bathroom. I have no idea what it is. I want to take a picture of it, post the image in the search bar of the search engine, and hit enter, and I want Google to tell me what that insect is.

2) I have been humming a tune for some days now. I can't, for the life of me, remember where I heard it, and whether I will hear it again. Meanwhile, it is driving me crazy. So I want to record myself hum that tune, post the wave file onto the search bar, and click on Enter. And I want the search result to contain the name of the song, the singer, and everything related to it.

3) I am trying desperately to remember a poem that we had, back in primary school about "Trust". I don't remember the name of the poem, nor the name of the poet, nor any line in the poem. But I know the meaning - the poet says that there is nothing great in trusting a person you know. What is amazing, is that we go through life trusting people totally unknown to us. We trust the cook at a restaurant not to poison us, we put our lives willingly into the hands of an unseen pilot on an aircraft, we trust an unknown doctor to cure us, etc. The latter kind of trust is greater than the former.
I want to paste this gist of the poem in the search bar, and click enter, and I want the poem retrieved for me.

Oh, I know it is not impossible to find out even now. I mean, there are poetry forums and insect-lovers' sites where I can get the info that I need - with a little effort, and some patience. But that's precisely the point. I want it done without lifting a finger. Or rather, lifting a finger just once (to click).

And I have complete faith that the day will come when I will read this post and laugh.

A tag in which I reveal my innermost secrets.

So, I have been tagged yet again, by the irrepressible and talented Ano [Check out her bloap (blog soap)]. So here goes!

I’m thinking about:
Food. Nothing new.

I said:
"I'm the greatest", but nobody believed me.

I want to:
Go around the world.

I wish:
I could just wave my hand, and set everything right in the world. Well, almost everything, otherwise, life would be boring, huh?

I hear:
Voices in my head.

I wonder:
What it is that makes people intolerant of people who are not like them.

I regret:
Nothing. No use wasting time thinking about the past.

I am:
Eternally hungry.

I dance:
With joy. But only with all doors and windows shut.

I sing:
Well. Ok, I can sing well, but I don't sing much nowadays. Pssst...I have taken the first step towards setting that right.

I cry:
Buckets when I’m emotional - too happy, too sad, too angry, too helpless....

I’m not always:
Patient.

I make with my hands:
The most delectable, soft, perfect, fully-blown Phulkas. Or so they say. [Modesty takes over.]

I write:
Coz I love to. Coz I cannot not write.

I confuse:
People ;)

I need:
Lots of love, lots of food, lots of music, lots of books, lots of friends, and lots of solitude.

And finally:
I tag, mmm... let me see... hmmm.. a different set this time - Anu, Bhargav, Srikanth, Bellur, Shastri.

Oh, and about the "innermost secrets" in the heading? That was just to get you to read this post! ;)

Four brief book reviews.

I just had to tell you about a couple of books that I read. My aunt gave them to me as a gift.

One was "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency" by Alexander McCall-Smith. This is a charming novel about Precious Ramotswe, a "traditionally built" single woman who lives in Botswana, and is the only lady detective in the whole country.

The book is fully of small mysteries, that she solves singlehandedly, using just logic and a perceptive knowledge of human nature. In the background of all the simple little problems of life, lies a sinister mystery waiting to be solved, and she does this too, with her usual elan. Comparisons to Agatha Christie's Miss Marple are rife in reviews about this book, but where Miss Marple is a sweet, old, mildmannered armchair detective, Mma Ramotswe is a firm, opinionated, independent, strong-willed, compassionate, Red Bush Tea-drinking individual on the threshold of middle-age.

You will love the protagonist, as will you love the other characters, the most prominent of them being Mr. JLB Matekoni, the expert mechanic who hopes to marry Mma Ramotswe. The book paints a beautiful picture of the little-known land of Botswana, for which Mma Ramotswe nurses a fierce love and pride.

I can assure you that you will not come away from this book without feelings of adoration, amusement, and warmth. I highly recommend it! And of course, now it has me thirsting for the other books in the series!

The second book is "I don't know how she does it" by Allison Pearson. It is the story of a working mother. It is funny, sad, and incredibly chaotic. Kate Reddy, the protagonist is highly likeable but at the same time insufferable. Her story is probably one of every working mother. Kate is torn between love for her job and the desire to be with her kids. Add to this, a feeling of profound guilt, and a long-suffering husband, and there, you have the story.

The book is a very good read. In many ways it was a revelation . It was like the answer to the endless discussions I had with friends during college days, about whether we would work when we have children - and then finally say - ok, let us cross that bridge when we come to it. This book has the answers. Oh no, this book doesn't preach working motherhood, nor the opposite, it just tells a story, it just gives you the facts. It is up to you to pick what you want from it. It was slightly disturbing, I must say. But it is very interestingly written. Full of laugh-out-loud similes, and spot-on behavioral observations.

Actually, while I am at it, I must tell you about a couple of other books. One is "Moulin Rouge" by Pierre La Mure, yes, the same book on which the movies (one old, one new) are based. I haven't watched either movie, but from the reviews, I gathered that the movies deal with just a small part of the book. The book is about the brilliant painter Henri Toulouse-Lautrec. Crippled, and a dwarf, his entire life is spent in the pursuit of love and acceptance. Meanwhile, he paints. Paints outrageous pictures, which shock society. While he pursues love, fame and success pursue him. But all that he wants is love. It is a heart-rending story - another must read.

Then there is the story "The Blind Assassin" by Margaret Atwood. This is a magnificent book. The basic story is about two sisters, Iris and Laura Chase. Laura dies under questionable circumstances, and Iris is now an octogenarian. She is writing a journal about her life, for her estranged granddaughter, whom she hopes to meet some day. So, parts of her story is revealed to us through this story. Then in parallel, there are extracts from the novel written by Laura Chase. The name of this novel is "The Blind Assassin", and it is a kind of a diary maintained by a young girl while waiting for her lover. And the story - The Blind Assassin? It is narrated to her by her lover. Then there are bits and pieces of the story revealed by newspaper clippings. The novel keeps going back and forth in time - and looks like a hotchpotch of excerpts from a journal, a novel, and a newspaper, but it all comes together superbly at the end.

Confusing? That is why I never attempted a review. It is too difficult. Anyway, the way Margaret Atwood has woven all the stories together is amazing. As for the writing - it is fantastic. By the way, this book won the Booker Prize in 2000.

So there you have it - Four books - one charming, one thought-provoking, one heart-rending, and one awe-inspiring. Take your pick. Happy reading.

I wrote a story in my dream but I don't remember it.

Last night, in my dream, I wrote a story. It had a surprise ending. Even in my dream, I knew it was a dream, like it happens so many times. I also knew that I would not remember the story when I woke up. So I considered waking up right then and jotting the story down. But even as I was thinking that, the salient points of the story began to blur. So I did what I thought was the next best thing. I tried to engrave some key points of the story in my head, so that I would remember it when I woke up.

I don't know if I did it, or if the darkness of sleep overcame the momentary clarity. But when I woke up, I did not even remember about the story. But a few minutes back, it came back to me that there was a story in my dream. I tried as hard as I could to remember what it was, but all that I remember is that the surprise ending consisted of one line, and that one line had a longish word, starting with "S". Surpassed? Stupendous? Stargazing? Is there any use?

I am insanely jealous of all those scientists who got solutions to their problems in their dreams. Take for example the scientist Kekule. He racked his brains for years, trying to find out the structure of Benzene. Then, once, in his dream, he saw six snakes slithering about. Suddenly they all got together, with each snake holding the tail of the next in its mouth, thus forming a circle. Bells rang in his head, and he probably woke up shouting the German version of "Eureka" and gave us the structure of the Benzene ring. (Which, by the way, is the only structure I could remember for Chemistry tests).

Then there are writers who say that they get their literary ideas from their dreams.. Robert Louis Stevenson says that he got the idea for "Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde" in a dream.

Now, my question is this. How did Kekule and Stevenson wake up and remember their dreams? If I were Kekule, the moment I started dreaming about snakes, I would have woken up screaming. And then I would have forgotten why I woke up screaming. Sigh. That's what makes Kekule, Kekule and me, me.

Don't dreams just drive you wild? With their can't-understand-them characteristics? You spend a whole day thinking of the Himalayas, and two minutes thinking of Dracula, and when you sleep, what do you dream of? Dracula of course.

And then there are those dreams where you know that it is a dream, but you cannot get out of it. It is like thrashing about in a web that you are caught in. If it is a nice dream, you don't really mind, you can even ask the person trying to wake you up, to hold on for five minutes while you finish your dream. But really wild are those dreams where you say, "I hope this is a dream. It sure feels like a dream". But it is never-ending, and bad things keep happening, and you can't control it, and at the point where you feel, "No, this is not a dream, it is really happening", the tears start flowing, and then you wake up, my cheeks wet with tears. And what a relief that is!

Then there are times when you wake up, and know that you have been dreaming, but don't remember the dream. Then the next time you go to bed, the dream automatically comes back, and you can easily continue it. Strange indeed.

Then there are dreams where a certain person makes an appearance, but you have forgotten it. And the next day, when you meet that person, you blurt out, "Hey I dreamt of you last night!" and then you have to listen to the sniggers all around. Sigh.

Anyway, the whole grouchy point of this post is that I have forgotten the wonderful, prize-winning material, Roald Dahl-ish story that I wrote in my dream.