Dreams, Delusions and Why Winston Churchill is My Fangirl

“Take the wheel, take the wheel, take the wheel.” Ethan Hunt shouted.

“No, I don’t have an American driver’s license. You drive. I’ll shoot the bad guys.” I screamed back.

“Look at me, man,” Ethan’s hazel green eyes peered deep into my black ones, “you have to believe in yourself. You got this.”

I obeyed.

I floored the pedal and zig-zagged through traffic like a pro. As I glanced back, Ethan was busy taking out the black cars trying to get us. Even through the chaos of the heart-in-throat chase, my eyes locked with the handsome facade of Tom Cruise’s face. He smiled at me and winked. The way his disheveled hair swayed was almost mesmerizing.

Then, a deep honk. A huge truck was just a couple of meters in front of our Mustang.

“Damn!” I hit the brakes and swerved the car. It flipped over violently once, twice, and…

“Ammachiyee,” I cried—oddly in my mother tongue, Malayalam—as I tumbled off the bed.

I rubbed my back. Never mind the pain, at least I am alive.

Standing up slowly with my hand still on my back I smiled. Today it was Tom Cruise’s turn to be rescued. Yesterday it was Bruce Lee’s. If it were not for me, he would have been bashed pretty bad by the goons.

Congratulations, you guessed it right. I am a superhero, in my dreams.

Many admit, melancholically, that they never dream or can’t recollect their dreams after waking up. I pity them. Even as a child, I was a good—nay, a great—dreamer.

When motivational speakers preach to dream big, I chuckle. No one dreams bigger than me.

And I have the God-given talent of remembering dreams. A dream wouldn’t just linger till breakfast but would excite, thrill, or traumatize me till lunch. I might continue in that mood until my siesta at noon; until I get hooked on another dream.

Sometimes I note down my adventures. I have quite a list. When I digitized it last week, I noticed an amusing pattern in the storyline.

Mostly in my dreams, I am good friends with many celebrities. I rescue action heroes, crack jokes with humorists, and share my invaluable insights with intellectuals. Hence many film stars, political leaders, and artists bask in my aura.

Even Winston Churchill shrieks like a little girl when he sees me.

But I am a humble person. I have often humbly thought about the reason why I have these dreams. It couldn’t be a coincidence that I am a superhero one minute and rubbing my back at the foot of the bed the next.

If we shush a few idiots who say dreams are meaningless, there are many viable and perfectly possible explanations for my celebrity dreams.

My extensive research—spanning three-and-half minutes in Google—told me that it represents a craving for publicity and acceptance. Please tell me something I don’t know.

Psychology might have something better.

Let’s skip Freud. He would throw around self-invented terms like Oedipus complex, Pleasure Principle, or Phallus-something. Way too vulgar.

The latest dream researchers say that dreams might be a simulation that prepares us for life. That’s fair. Without these dreams, I’d be utterly unprepared when Beyonce shows up heartbroken at my door, needing a comforting hug. Not to mention the awkwardness when Harari cracks a joke over a coffee and I am so starstruck that all I can manage is a wayward grin.

Advocates of reincarnation theory see dreams differently. They believe dreams are peepholes into your past lives. Though I don’t see why Bruce wouldn’t spar with me, I don’t support the hypothesis. It creates logical fallacies.

For instance, the timeline wouldn’t fit if, in my past life, I sparred with Bruce in the 70’s, shared jokes with Arnold in 80’s and a smoke with Jackson in 90’s, rescued Tom in the 2000s, and went fishing with Nolan in 2010s. I would have to be too old in the past life, and a toddler this one.

Speaking of the past, it is worth knowing what the ancients thought about dreams. Let us prick up our ears to the wisdom of ancient cultures.

Egyptian dream interpreters used to say that our dreams are future predictors. I am not opposed to that view. But I am confused. How do I initiate a friendship with Tom Cruise? Should I go to Tom’s with champagne or wait for him to finish filming his movie and swing by my place? Or should I use the oldest trick in the book: hug and tackle in the airport?

Aristotle, one of the wisest ever, considered dreams reflections of physical and emotional states. I agree. Emotionally, I am in the league of the greats. Waking hours, not so much. Sleeping hours, exceptionally so.

My ancestors, Indians, believed that dream (swapna), waking (jagrat), and dreamless sleep (sushupti) are transient states of consciousness. None is more permanent or truer than the other. This also puts me at ease. I am a champion of two states. Who cares if I am mediocre in one?

So by all possible explanations, I am simply awesome.

Yawn…All this brainstorming made me tired. Let me get some much-needed sleep.

Come on Beyonce.