Queen of Dreams (10 page)

“Not even me?” she’d say, greatly daring, her heart beating fast. She wasn’t used to flirting—she’d always been a serious girl. And he would dip his face toward hers—. But all this would be much later. Weeks? Months? Time blurs into Before and After when she thinks of Sonny.

Sonny is the one who made her take her art seriously. Until then, she’d puttered around. But seeing his passion made her want to have something like that of her own. And he’d encouraged her. He’d been the first person she believed when he said she had something special.

But she’s jumping ahead. On that first day, he didn’t even notice her, caught up in the web of sound in his head. Or maybe he did. Because he sat in the same place next time, and the next, and the next, and then he asked her what she was doing for lunch.

Dreaming, she wonders what it was that drew them to each other. Was it their similarity? They were both of Indian origin, though he never spoke of his past—parents, hometown, high school, habits. (In this he was like her mother. Was this core of secrecy the reason they’d taken to each other right away when Rakhi introduced them?) She didn’t even know if he’d been born in America, like herself, though she could tell he’d lived in it long enough to be uncomfortable anywhere else. (She wanted to ask him if he longed for India like she did—India, which she’d never seen but had every intention of visiting next year. She didn’t know then that next year would turn into the next, that she’d never go.) They both loved spicy food, preferably Asian. They’d drive his car (a battered Mustang at the time) up to Tilden Park and eat takeout with their fingers from bright cartons. They’d watch the sun set over Angel Island and feed each other pad thai noodles or Szechwan beef with extra red chilies. The stars would come up one by one; he would worry an old tune out of a guitar, a song she’d heard on her father’s record player. But in his hands it became something quite different. Listening, it was hard for her to breathe. She loved watching his face, intent, oblivious, as though she weren’t there. No, as though
he
weren’t there. It was the way she hoped her own face might be when she was painting.

Or was it their differences, the opposed poles of their longings that fascinated them? He was a night spirit, with impulsive, uneven, boyish generosities. He loved the smoky camaraderie of clubs, though he didn’t smoke (not cigarettes, anyway). He’d have bought the whole world drinks if she didn’t stop him. He loved to be in crowds, jostled by strangers. Loved the desperate trust of raves. He understood how people needed to have a good time, and what they were prepared to do to get it. Understood the complexity of the enterprise. He scorned Valentine’s Day, then brought her flowers for no reason. Nothing trite like roses. Instead: bearded iris, anthuriums, snowdrops, even orchids, though he wasn’t rich, not by any means. He loved late-night jam sessions with the band he played in sometimes. He kept loaning his musician friends money. (They never returned it; he never expected them to.) Playing made him restless. I’m high from the music, he’d say. (Later, she’d wonder if that was all he was high from, and later still, she’d begin to get angry. But that was in the future, a lifetime away.) They went to a bar or an all-night café to talk, and even if she was bleary-eyed next day in class, or had a hangover and missed class altogether, even if sometimes her hand shook from all that unaccustomed caffeine when she painted, it was okay, it was fun, artists grew as they had new experiences, he was her new experience, and she was growing.

After she’d passed from that life into a different time, something spackled and gray, like the inside of tunnels, she’d realize you couldn’t build a relationship on a new experience. Because one day it wasn’t new anymore, and what were you left with?

In the classroom, months have passed, maybe years. Sonny leans toward her—they are studying Borges, or is it Bauhaus architecture? He wears a Pan-like beard now, and an earring. You loved me because of the dimple just below my lower lip, he says, speaking loud enough to make the professor raise her eyebrows. You loved me because I was the first one. You loved me because I was as risky as jumping off a speeding train. He takes off his earring and reaches for her hand—he’s going to slide it onto her finger, and it will become her engagement ring, her favorite piece of jewelry. (When he starts making big money he’ll buy her a diamond ring, but she’ll put it in the bank and continue wearing the thin hoop on her finger.) Things will speed up after this day, will blur like a film that’s being projected too rapidly. She’ll bring him to meet her parents—her mother, really, who was the one that counted—but no, that had happened already, hadn’t she already gathered him to her as though he were her long-lost firstborn? They’ll be married in a month, in a year they’ll move into the beautiful pink Victorian house in Oakland, bought for (literally) a song, under circumstances that she’ll begin to question—but not until it’s too late. Jona will be born. The American public will learn what a bhangra remix is, and it will electrify their souls. Sonny will make more money, and more. More than she can imagine at this moment. His name will snake its way up the charts. His fans will adore him, men and women both. Oh, how they’ll adore him! And then—

But the movie reel has stuttered backward somehow. She’s in the classroom again, Sonny holds out the ring. She’s going to say yes, but first she wants to ask him why he loves her. She who has no dimple under her lip, she who isn’t his first, she who’s as risky as instant oatmeal. But he’s frowning, impatient. Everyone in the room is frowning at her, even the professor, they’re all waiting for her to put on the ring that will brand her as his. Never mind, she thinks, extending her left hand. There’ll be time enough later to ask him everything she wants to know.

Wait. Something is wrong with this dream-or-not film—a defective frame, maybe. Because in this scene she has no hand—no arm, even. She looks around, baffled, then apologetic under the glare of the class’s eyes.

It’s okay, Sonny says. Give me the other hand.

But that too is gone. She’s only a torso now, a chipped piece of statuary, cracks spreading at temples and collarbones, pitted scars along the column of the throat. Surely no man would want to marry her now, maimed as she is. Tears flow from her stone eyes as she thinks this.

But look: Sonny leans forward, a glittering that might be compassion in his eyes. He slips the ring between her parted stone lips, gives her torso a shake. She feels the ring begin to slide into her mouth, her throat, down, down, until it gets lodged in her chest somewhere. She’ll never be able to return it to him now, she thinks, and feels a moment of despair. But perhaps she shouldn’t be despairing. Doesn’t this mean she’ll be his forever? That he’ll always take care of her?

He nods at her as though he’s read her mind, and leans forward. He kisses her. It’s a long kiss. The class applauds and whistles, the professor quotes Marx,
What man most loves about woman
is her dependency on him,
and someone throws rice grains for luck.

In the morning, it is raining. She drops Jona off at school, then stares dispiritedly at her half-finished painting. No solutions have come to her in the restless night. She has roughly seven hundred dollars in the bank, and a few pieces of jewelry. (Not the diamond ring, which she returned to Sonny a long time ago even though he said,
Keep it.
) In any case, jewelry never fetches much— she knows this already, from things she’s had to pawn. Just like the equipment in the Chai House will not fetch much if they shut down.

She decides to walk to the eucalyptus grove. It’s unlikely that the man in white will be practicing in all this rain, but the walk might clear her head. And who knows—maybe he will be there. Maybe she’ll walk up to him and ask if he’d like to invest in a café. The ridiculousness of her daydreaming makes her laugh out loud. She’s shrugging on her blue poncho when the phone rings.

It’s her mother. “I haven’t seen you in a long while,” she says. “How about I take the BART up so we can spend a little time together.”

Rakhi feels a warning buzz along her daughter antenna. Her mother rarely comes to Berkeley (she calls it Berserkley)—and never on the train, because the station is a long way from both the shop and Rakhi’s apartment. Then she remembers her mother mentioning she doesn’t like to drive as much, now that she’s getting on in years. (Her mother’s words had depressed Rakhi. Somehow she’d believed that a dream teller’s powers would have protected her from the banal infirmity of aging.)

“Are you sure?” she asks. “It’s so rainy today—and you’ve been fighting that cold. Why don’t you wait till Friday—you’ll be coming up then anyway for the opening of the show—”

“Don’t worry!” her mother says. “I took a megadose of vitamin C. Besides, the rain’s going to let up in just a while.”

How can she know that? Outside Rakhi’s window, the rain beats down in determined, opaque sheets. It doesn’t look like it’s intending to let up anytime soon. Do her mother’s powers extend to the interpretation of meteorologic phenomena?

“I heard it on the Weather Channel, silly!” her mother says. “I’ll be at the Chai House around noon. Don’t rush if you get busy painting. I’ll be happy to chat with Balwant until you come.”

“Painting!” Rakhi gives a snort. “I wish!” Then, impulsively, she blurts out, “Mom, we’re in big trouble.”

“Yes, shona,” her mother says. “That’s why I’m coming.”

As she walks to the eucalyptus grove through rain that has obligingly reduced itself to a drizzle, a new uneasiness pricks at Rakhi. Their situation must be far worse than she has gauged; otherwise her mother would never involve herself in it.

11

FROM THE
DREAM JOURNALS

NOTES, LESSON 17: THE MEANINGS OF THINGS

If you dream of a closed door, you will ultimately be successful in gaining what you desire, but it will take much effort.

A dream of milk means you are about to fall ill.

A mirror stands for a false friend, a pair of scissors for a break in a marriage, a double-ended drum for recognition and renown, an iron wheel for ill fortune coming at you from every direction.

If you dream you are grinding salt, you will solve the problem that is overwhelming you—but you must be ruthless in your pursuit of the solution. In your dream if someone presents you with sugar, beware. Such a person is not to be trusted.

Remember that these are only the basic meanings, which will change their significance depending on each situation. In the telling of dreams, as I have said before, context is everything.

For instance: If a man dreams of a thorn, he will move ahead in his career. If in his dream he removes a thorn from someone else’s foot, he will turn an enemy into a friend. If a virgin dreams of a thorn, she will marry into a distinguished family. If a woman who is not a virgin dreams of a thorn, she is (though she does not know it yet) pregnant.

Likewise, if a man dreams of a monkey, he will face challenges in business, which, if handled well, will lead to great benefits. If a woman dreams of the same monkey, she will give birth to a deformed child. For those who are single, a monkey dream means that they will marry a person with a terrible temper.

You asked about the cockatoo, which occurs often in dreams. It is a symbol of luck for men, foretelling the end of a long-drawn family quarrel. For women, however, it foretells the birth of a girl-child, which may become the cause of new contention in a household.

You must wait another month for a full lesson on the meanings of animals, for there is much subtlety in them. Think, for instance, of all that may happen if a man dreams he has killed a dragonfly, or a woman of a cat that has entered the kitchen.

A special lesson will be dedicated to animal guides who come to us at times of great danger or great joy. Enough now for you to know that the eagle, the deer and the snake are the most important of them all.

Listen then to the significance of trees: A tree with glossy green leaves means a patient’s health will improve; a tree that is cut down in a dream means a big expense is about to fall upon you. A palm tree presages good luck, especially if you are climbing it. If you climb down with the fruit of the palm in your hand, you will be eminently successful. A banana tree will bring you an inheritance. A date tree warns you that you must undertake a pilgrimage. A banyan will face you with a complicated moral decision. If you see an oleander in your dream, be prepared to mourn.

You asked, What if your fortunes move you to lands where men and women dream of other trees? Of apple and pine, ginkgo and persimmon and cherry blossom, which are not written of in our ancient books. Further, what if they dream of cell phones, toll-booths, electric saws? Of roadways in the sky, of machines that whisk people from one time to another?

Do not despair. Reach into the well of yourself and draw up the necessary meaning, for the meanings of all dreams are ultimately inside you, and not in the words I speak. That is why, as I warned you in the beginning, I cannot teach anyone who is not already a teller of dreams. And that is why you will realize one day that everything I am teaching you is most crucial—and most useless.

You asked, What does it mean when a man you have dreamed of appears in your life? And what should you do about him?

Such an event is extremely rare and will come to you only at moments that hold within them the possibility of great change. Therefore, listen well. First, follow this man, for he is either a spirit guide or a demon. In either case, trick him into speaking to you. That is how you establish power over him. Ask him the question foremost in your mind. His answer may transform your life. But most importantly, do not lose him. More instruction on this matter will be given to you next year, when you have learned enough to understand such subtleties.