When dreams touch you with their glowing effervescent light. The naive thought of a possibility. The courage and vigour that says anything is possible. The nascent need to achieve, to reach out, to accomplish a dream. A dream when it is still a baby. Impregnating your thoughts. The concept aching to break out of its shell. Inexperienced and unpolluted. A suspended thought.
Lazy afternoons in West Bengal. The summers here would be super sleepy. All the kids in here would be brimming with energy and parents would pin them down to the beds for an afternoon siesta. The entire city would swoon down for an hour or two. “Ghum holo na?” (Didn’t sleep properly?) neighbours ‘d ask if they’d see You cranky in the evening. The towns would quite down and hustle only again in the evening.
It was one such afternoon. I was visiting my Uncle’s. We were chatting, discussing, joking, having fun. When an idea had hushed us. From somewhere we started discussing dreams and the dream that had intrigued me the most was my Uncle’s. He had an after retirement plan.
He had a dream of opening a cafe. A cafe he said would serve not only hot/cold drinks but also hot and cold dreams. He had this plan of opening a reading cafe. A cafe which allowed its customer to go through the plethora of books that he would assemble in his cafe. No it wasn’t a library. You couldn’t take the books home. But you could contribute books. You could bring books you wanted read, to be kept here. He said it with pious simplicity that he revered books. And he wanted to reach out to everyone who wanted to read. He wanted his cafe to be a “boi over a cup of coffee” (a book over a cup of coffee).
Dreams hot and cold. When I said dreams hot and cold I meant, he meant, the books served in the cafe would be of both renowned writers, classic writers, best selling writers and of upcoming artists, budding talents. Or simply pieces from where writers wanted read. He wanted a pin board where articles from minds could be pinned. He had a dream that looked alive to me when he spoke to me. He wanted to become a part of their narration of their own life. To become the water to their seed or sun or that occasional manure. But to play a role. A role in the readers life by introducing them to that story that might just change their life or the writers so that they get an audience with the crowd they want to introduce their work to. It was a podium to nurture dreams. He said it and I revered it. I was transfixed with the idea of such a dream like place. A place I would av given anything to be at when I was a child.