Today felt Good. After five days of relentless fever, I was finally feeling better. The day began as usual—waking up around 10:00 AM, thanks to the ongoing lockdown keeping schools shut. Though I was recovering, the condition of our country weighed on my mind, especially since my mom was unwell, battling a similar fever. The news channels constantly buzzed with updates about the worsening pandemic, and every update added to the anxiety that had been lingering in the back of my mind.
The morning passed with me managing household chores. I cooked a light breakfast and ensured Mom had her medicines on time. Once done, I spent time chatting with my friends over a group call—our usual banter filled with laughter and harmless teasing. I'm lucky to have friends who genuinely care, especially a few close ones who always check up on me. They've been my support system through these trying times, reminding me to take care of myself and lighten up even when things feel heavy.
Time slipped away as we discussed everything from our favorite TV shows to the peculiar dreams we'd been having lately. One of my friends shared a strange dream about being lost in a maze, while another recounted a dream about meeting someone from the future. Dreams were funny like that—seemingly random yet oddly impactful. Soon, it was evening, and I started feeling slightly off again. A dull headache crept in, and my body felt weaker. Noticing this, Dad decided to cheer me up by announcing he'd cook paneer for dinner—his specialty. His paneer is so good, it could bring the dead back to life. The thought of it immediately lifted my spirits.
Later, as part of my routine, I went to the bathroom for some alone time and deep thinking. It's funny how the bathroom becomes a place of quiet reflection—a small sanctuary away from the noise of daily life. But just as I was stepping out, something tripped me, and my slippers broke. It startled me, the sound of the snapping strap echoing in the otherwise silent house. I sighed, thinking about how minor inconveniences always seemed to pile on when you least expected them.
Morning, I woke up at 10:00 AM, groggy and unsettled. My health didn't feel great, and then I noticed my right slipper was indeed broken, just like in my dream. That's when it hit me—what I saw last night wasn't real. Or was it? The vividness of the dream lingered, leaving me questioning whether it was merely a figment of my imagination or something more.
Still shaken, I looked for Dad but couldn't find him. Mom told me he'd gone out to get groceries. I checked the kitchen and found no paneer—just a pot of potatoes sitting on the counter. It felt anticlimactic, almost as if reality was mocking my dream. I asked Mom to confirm, and she said the same. "Potatoes were all we had left," she said with a shrug, clearly unaware of the strange turmoil brewing in my mind.
When Dad returned, he brought a box and, with a teasing smile, handed me a new pair of slippers. "Your slippers broke last night, didn't they? So I got you a new pair," he said, grinning in a way that irritated me. His smile wasn't malicious, but it carried a knowingness that unsettled me. How did he know about the broken slippers? Was it a coincidence, or had he somehow been part of my dream?
For some inexplicable reason, a wave of frustration overtook me. My mind felt clouded, as though a heavy fog had settled over my thoughts. The laughter we'd shared over dinner plans, the comfort of his presence—all of it felt distant and unreal in that moment. Without thinking, I grabbed the hammer Dad had left nearby for his work. Before I knew it, I had struck him with it. The weight of the action hit me immediately. My hands trembled as I dropped the hammer, unable to comprehend what I'd just done.
I jolted awake. It was 6:00 AM, earlier than usual. The dream replayed vividly in my mind, every detail intact. I immediately checked my slippers—they were fine. Relieved, I told myself it was just a bad dream. The lingering unease, however, didn't dissipate. It clung to me like a shadow, making me question the boundary between reality and illusion.
Later, when I approached Dad to share the nightmare, I found him lying motionless. His face was pale, and he wasn't breathing. Panicking, I called for help. The doctors arrived quickly but could do little. They said he'd suffered a massive blood clot in his brain, which led to his death. The words echoed in my ears, each syllable amplifying the guilt and confusion swirling within me. How could a dream feel so prophetic? Was there something I could've done to prevent this?
Sometimes dreams feel real, and sometimes they are real. The line between the two is often blurred, leaving us to grapple with their meanings.
"Dreams, in their own mysterious way, try to tell us something about the future. If you remember one, don't ignore it."
As I sat beside my father's still form, I couldn't shake the feeling that my dream had been more than a mere coincidence. It was a warning, a message from the depths of my subconscious. And though it came too late to change the outcome, it left me with a haunting reminder—to listen, to pay attention, and to never take the whispers of our dreams lightly.