After toiling from mid-morning to mid-afternoon, like an honest politician a few months before the all-important elections, I crash like Windows Vista when the clock strikes nine, carried away in sleep by a Blue Screen of Dreams to that land which is inhabited by Socialists and Spurned Lovers.
Now, not having any good, positive sensory stimuli through the day (one of the drawbacks of surgical practice), one would expect me to have a dream like one or more of the following:
* Giving a
slurring stirring speech before the Society of American Gastrointestinal Endoscopic Surgeons in Phoenix, Arizona, after which the entire audience seems transformed into cheerleaders of a different sort.
* Being awarded the Nobel Prize for discovering that a sharp kick in the pants could cause a permanent cure of all groin hernias that largely afflict males.
* Operating on US President O’Bummer for an abdominal tumor, and calmly announcing to the waiting world, “The President had a couple of loose screws from his past operations that had created a mess in the left side of his brain (in the world of border-less clouds you can do things like that: operate on the belly and take things out from the brain). The only change this operation will have on him will be that he will look transparent, like his wife.”
Now, lest you think I am a scheming, dreaming monomaniac with a scalpel, there are other things I could have been dreaming off:
* A feast of chocolate cake. Locally, the one at Costa Coffee has me babbling like a tongue-tied Mamata Banerjee, the spit hitting the fans, so to speak.
* Becoming the Prime Minister of India and declaring war on all controls, making politics unprofitable, and putting all committees and brokers out of business, thereby increasing national unemployment significantly.
Do I not have a romantic bone in my body, you ask? Of course, I do have one! I could dream of:
* A trip to South Africa with the woman of my dreams, enjoying the Indian Ocean over a chocolate truffle cake…. (aargh! there I go again!)
* A hectic session of laugh-making with my
women woman, ending in a candle-light dinner that ends with chocolate…
All said, the impatient reader, if not already lost to more serious blogs, would be wondering where I am going with this post.
I am getting old, or I am losing it. I am not dreaming of any of the above. I am not even dreaming of becoming a social worker who distributes his
hardly hard-earned money like an Amar Singh. Instead, as I move in my sleep, my hands feel my sore and hard muscles, and I keep imagining me (surrounded by sundry girls lying around me) pumping hard, ‘fast out, slow in’, as I reach a climax of exertion to loud, sweaty moans.
At the gym, another target is reached, another set complete, another muscle tested. “Next set, no more rest, start!”
I think there is something seriously wrong with me. You guys must already know it, perhaps. What is it you dream of, anyways? Or is your sleep a Blue Screen of Death?