Dreamcatcher

This is a realistic fiction short story that was written by me about a year ago. I've always been comfortable writing dystopian pieces or YA excerpts but I wanted to explore new territories, so I wrote this story set in India. It has since then been published online through Magic Diary on WordPress:

https://magicdiary2017.wordpress.com/2021/02/12/dreamcatcher-by-manvi-bhatia-qatar/

My eyelids were heavy, my mouth as dry as a desert, and I was cold — so cold.

I felt myself waking up to the sound of a loud horn, alerting the passengers on the platform. I squinted, unable to adjust my eyes to the sudden sunlight that pierced through the ragged old blanket I used to cover my frail body. A feeling of hopelessness stirred again in the pit of my empty stomach. It grumbled louder than ever when the smell of hot chai and samosas wafted through the air. I reached for my old plastic water bottle, only to find that not a single drop of water was left in it for me.

I cursed out loud in frustration. Some harried passengers turned around and looked at me with surprise and disgust as they boarded their train. Of course, they looked disgusted, I thought to myself, cringing at the state I was in. Dishevelled, with uneven hair, a layer of dirt lining my scarred skin, my cracking, almost bleeding lips — all clear signs of loneliness, desperation and poverty — I was a plague that people wanted to avoid. The platform was full of us, but I’d like to think I had the worst of it all — maybe we all thought that way. I turned to look at Chiku, my dog, who was staring straight at a vendor selling snacks.

“I know, Chiku. I’m starving too.” I sighed, petting her matted fur, as she whimpered, falling back onto the makeshift cardboard bed I made for us, behind a bookstore.

“Naveen Uncle, can we also get some, please? I’ll pay you by the end of this month!” I pleaded to the familiar shopkeeper. I have known him since I was seven. His sparse hair was always neatly combed back and he wore a crisp shirt every morning, yet his eyes said otherwise. The redness around his iris and the dark sunken eye bags were only because he worked tirelessly — three jobs a week — to pay the hospital bills for his son who had a rare disease, and to get his young daughter married into a good home.

The paint on his shop wall was chipping off, and the panelling squealed with every step he took. Smiling, he emerged with a hot clay cup of tea, one samosa, and a packet of biscuits. His hands shook a little as he offered them to me. I felt guilty for receiving so much, but my stomach begged me not to deny. I hesitantly accepted the gifts.

“Thank you so much…I will pay you back…soon….”

“Ishaan!” He called after me, as I started walking away. “I know you will, but please focus on your talents! They are far more valuable than you think,” he said, gesturing to a new advertisement stuck on a large platform pillar, that was covered in all sorts of stains; yet the poster stood out, like a shining star. I looked at it and then sighed, knowing I couldn’t possibly be worthy of that much money.

I was seven years old when my mom left us and my dad died soon after. That was ten years ago. I have begged for a living ever since and made home at this station behind a bookstore. Across the bookstore was Uncle Naveen’s teashop. He was the one who fed me on most days when I was younger. Later, he made some arrangement with the bookstore owner and I got paid me a paltry sum for keeping vigil on the shop when he was away. Additionally, I had access to all kinds of old books, some of which lay in a heap in the corner where I slept at night. I had learnt English by browsing through old magazines and newspapers. The shop also had a small television playing children’s cartoons to attract waiting parents and their children. Over the years, I had slowly learnt to read the subtitles in English too.

The poster did something to me. I could feel my heart pounding wildly in my ribcage as I pushed through the crowd of overeager people, rushing to their mundane jobs. I returned to Chiku, whose tail started happily wagging at the sight of the biscuits in my hand. I opened the packet and took half, leaving the rest for her. As I sipped my chai, I pulled out a handful of my drawings from my tattered cloth bag. My eyes glanced over the intricate sketches I had made over the years — a secret I refused to share with anyone. Only Uncle Naveen knew.

I packed my ‘house’ within a matter of minutes and went over to the bookstore owner to tell him I would be gone for two days. He made a grimace and turned away to attend to his customers. I tossed my clothes and other stuff into a large blanket and tied it at the corners. Then scooping up Chiku in my arms, I covered her with my torn towel and sneaked onto a train headed to where the contest was taking place the next day.

I kept my head down, avoiding the ticket checker, hiding amongst the adults, all of whom looked alike to me — zombies or clockwork dolls, mechanically going about their chores with no dreams in their eyes.

I often wondered why people kept doing things they didn’t enjoy, but I knew what a scary monster poverty was. I knew because I faced hardships that private school kids with expensive shoes didn’t. I knew the pain of watching my mother walk away; I knew the pain of never having a home, and worst of all, I knew the pain of watching my lifeline, my father, die in front of my eyes. I had barely turned eight. I had no idea of the calamity befalling me that night as I sat by my dad watching him gasp for his last breaths, helplessly on the sidewalk,

I shook my head trying to erase those painful memories and stared out of the window with blurry eyes. I watched the landscape turn from a green wonderland to a barren wasteland before my eyes; and then came the smoke from the factories, covering the blue sky. Ah! the blue sky. It seemed to gasp for breath like my dad. My eyes welled up thinking how our planet was dying slowly before my eyes. I was just as helpless.

A recorded voice interrupted my thoughts. As the passengers stood up and clamoured towards the doors, I followed them. As soon as I got down, I removed the towel and let Chiku free. I looked at the time on the station clock. The contest would begin in the next few hours. “It’s a bit of a walk to the museum building, Chiku. Are we ready?” I felt a slight rumble in my stomach.

As I approached the bustling corner, I noticed the magnificent and ancient museum building, towering over others. A long line of people was standing at the entrance of the building and I could see other contestants, like me, holding on to their portfolios and drawing materials. I gulped nervously. My confidence plummeted lower than before as I pushed myself forward to sign up as a contestant.

I received all kinds of glances as I made way to the counter. From disbelief to disgust, those eyes expressed so much. I searched for one friendly look, but there were none. I stopped to breathe slowly and made a heartfelt declaration at that very moment: “Something way bigger must come out of all my pain. I was not suffering so much for so many years, for nothing.”

People at the reception refused to let a beggar in, at first. ‘They are meant to be begging outside,’ I even heard someone smirk. But it was my lucky day. A senior official took a small test and let me in. I was so relieved to march along with fifty others chosen for the contest.

As I entered a spacious room, I noticed a panel of three judges sitting on one side. Suddenly, I was a bundle of nerves. The strict security had forced me to leave Chiku outside the main gate. A well-meaning guard had promised to keep watch over her and feed her, but my mind went back to Chiku, again and again. I felt great restlessness. I tried regulated my breathing to get a hold of me and then I took out my pencils and sharpened them pencil slowly—that always helped.

The first round, ‘Re-creation’, began dot on time. I kept my eyes focused on the sculpture that was placed in front of us and began my sketch. After about an hour, I was halfway done. The side of my palm was by now covered in graphite; pencil shavings lay scattered all around my desk. I sighed and started shaking my leg vigorously, something I did when I was stressed. Time seemed to be running out on me. I had managed to create an accelerated perspective and finished with the blending, but I still had to build on the contrast and use the chiaroscuro effectively. I felt grateful that my makeshift shack beside the book shop at the station had allowed me to learn so much. That was my secret.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1…Time’s up!” They declared. I dropped my pencil and sighed in relief.

“We will now take an hour to judge your drawings. Please take a break and return for the second and final round when you are called,” one of the judges said.

Was Chiku okay? Could she be crying and looking for me? My heart winched in pain again. I could do very little but pray at that point in time. I wasn’t allowed to step out of the building, yet.

Time passed by a lot quicker than I anticipated. In the second round, we had to draw something from memory. After a few moments of pondering, I knew exactly what I had to do. I recalled the art book’s instructions on how to measure anatomical figures and how to recreate them on the page from the ground up, capturing its movement in a gesture, rebuilding the figure three-dimensionally using basic spheres, boxes and cylinders, and then sculpting them to human forms. I had spent many nights devouring books on drawing, sketching and painting and had copied each picture several times till I perfected them.

I looked around and noticed some contestants were already giving up. I too felt the pressure of the judges’ scrutiny, but I reminded myself why I was there and what I had declared to myself…’Something way bigger was waiting for me.’

“Alright, please wait outside while we discuss your work!” they declared when my turn came. I felt beads of perspiration appear on my forehead.

I could finally step outside the museum building to check on Chiku. She was on a leash sitting quietly beside the guard. The moment she noticed me, she jumped up with such delight that she nearly broke the leash. I was so relieved too. Being with Chiku made me feel calmer. I looked around the building premise, which was still thronging with people. There were contestants, their parents, and relatives, all waiting eagerly for the result. I looked up and noticed the sun shining as bright as a supernova.

After about an hour the group of judges emerged on the balcony on the first floor of the museum building. They had an envelope in their hand. A camera crew appeared from nowhere and followed them closely from all sides.

“Now, the moment everyone has been waiting for… the winner of the Dreamcatcher Contest, 2021, is…Ishaan Gill!”

Time stopped and so did my heart for a moment. Everyone looked around for the winner, seeing through me as though I was invisible until I took a shaky step forward and raised my hand. I was still in shock. While some people glanced back at the judges with disbelief, wondering if there had been a mistake, others cheered loudly. From nowhere several cameras appeared and zoomed on me from all sides. Even Time seemed to pirouette in joy.

It’s been five years since that fortunate day, and my name is now known across the country, even across the world. It has been a rag to riches tale of inspiration. I was immediately given the cash prize and taken to a news station that day, where I got to take a warm shower after ages and was given a crisp new suit to wear for the interview. They asked me about my past, and how I learnt to draw so well. After that, came interviews after interviews, until, on my eighteenth birthday, I was offered a 75% funded acceptance to the Virginia Commonwealth University in the U.S.

I returned to India after a few years to that very platform where it all began, hoping to find the man who supported me when I was spat on, who encouraged me when I was ignored, and who smiled at me when I had no hope. As the sun grew increasingly bright, and the wind whistled in the trees, I neared the familiar chai stall, hoping to find Uncle Naveen in his shop with his hair neatly combed back and a half-read newspaper in his hands.

There he was, shaking more than before, as though he had been holding on for just this moment. Tears rushed to my eyes as I went up to the old man to give him a hug. As I touched his feet for his blessing Naveen Uncle stepped back in surprise.

“Is that you, Ishaan? Look at you!” He began chuckling as he patted my back. “See…I told you, I told you….” He mumbled, while gently passing his frail hands over my face. ‘We have been waiting for you to come back” he said, unlocking a small partition. “Baby, look, look who is here,” he said with a big smile, his crinkles around his eyes becoming more prominent.

A ruffle and a scamper and out came Chiku, squealing like a baby, wagging her tail frantically, throwing me over and licking me like there was no tomorrow. How I had longed for this reunion! Chiku too had grown and wasn’t easy to scoop up anymore. Memories flooded my mind. When I left to study, Uncle Naveen suggested I leave Chiku with him at that station, which had been Chiku’s home from childhood like me.

“Uncle, before you say anything else, I have something to give you and you cannot say ‘no’ to me.” I handed him an envelope, containing a cheque for $30,000 — an amount that would not only cover his son’s hospital bills, but also pay for a new home and spare more than enough to buy a new shop with more supplies.

He gasped, unable to comprehend what was happening. The good man that he was, he began shaking his head and attempted to return the envelope to me. I caught his hands in mine and handed him another paper — my final drawing at the contest.

His eyes filled with tears as his fingers traced over the drawing of himself sitting in front of his shop, reading the daily paper, with Chiku by his side.

“You believed in me when I had no hope. I had accepted my fate to die on the streets, just like my family did. For the life you gave me, even this isn’t enough.” I said tearfully. “You dreamed for Ishaan; now let Ishaan make your dreams a reality.”

Notice: This short story was conceptualised, written, and edited by me, Manvi B. Garg. Any form of redistribution or reproduction of any published work is not allowed! If you would like to re-post my work, please email me or go on the Euphoric Waves Instagram for permission first!