My Encounter with Bilocation

My Encounter with Bilocation

Sumera B. Reshi 

After five days of work, it was Friday and weekend in the Middle East. I knew I have nowhere to go, no place to visit, no friends to meet, no enemies to envy or discuss and no groceries to buy as my husband has started to save every damn penny. In two months, he turned from a spendthrift to a skinflint. No wastage of petrol, no more shopping and no more roaming around. So the first half of the day, I dedicated myself to cooking. Nonetheless, today I had to cook his favourite dish, ‘Pulao’ (a dish cooked with meat and rice). I was done with the cooking, however, I wasn’t sure whether the man of my dreams will appreciate my work and my skills which I added in making pulao my way.

Anyways, the time was apt to serve the pulao after Friday prayers. I laid the table and apprehensively asked my husband to serve the contents on the plates. While we both munched the first morsel of pulao, I looked sideways, to skip the taunt in case the pulao isn’t the way he wanted it to be. I waited for his first morsel to be crushed by his teeth, caressed by his taste buds, swallowed by his tongue down to the food pipe and then to the stomach. I also dreamed to get a sound admiration of ‘wah wah’ from him even though his mouth was stuffed with a crumb of pulao.  I was waiting for his reaction as if I waited for my matriculation results after countless days of hard work. I was munching my morsel but I peeped a glance at his half-face (mouth to chin). Ah! That was indeed a moment of relief for me when I saw his eyebrows raised in pleasure, nodded his head with satisfaction. He said, “It isn’t bad though you cooked your way.” I had a sigh of relief. I thanked heavens at least the Friday lunch inside our four walls wasn’t ruined at all. I felt elated with his satisfied belly.

Since I had nowhere to go for an outing, the afternoon seemed too monotonous. He searched a movie on YouTube and selected ‘Machis’ (matchstick). This movie was on extremism in Punjab (a state in India), its causes and the strategy to flush out extremists. He, then, aborted this home theatre option and went for the afternoon siesta. I, as usual, was left alone in the four walls of my room, none to talk with my inner loneliness, no one to share my desire since I wanted to go out, feel the scorching sun, and witness the dry weather of Emirates and sense unruly sand storms on the roadside. In unison, I had to insist sleep on my wide-open eyes.

For half an hour, I couldn’t sleep but then sleep came to take me in its lap. I dozed off. Within a few moments, I went into the deeper realms of my dream. Since I was brought up by my granny, so my cosy place was my maternal home. This home was like a heaven for me, a resting place in a truer sense.

In my dream, I was in my maternal home and was served tea without biscuits and rice without curry while others got everything laid on the table. I haven’t been to my maternal home since my granny left this earthly world. I was happy to be here once again, however, the treatment by my host irritated me. I fumed in anger but ate the food served to me on the plate. Not only did I eat but I was asked to wash all the dishes. Therefore, the mercury rose to a higher level. I fretted and fumed, murmured nasty words, spewed my ire. My eyes bulged, turned blood red, my face burned like an ember, the skin on my face tightened to an extreme level. This was my reaction to my host’s treatment.

In this vehemence, tears welled down my red hot cheeks, and like a petulant child, I cried for my granny. My voice went unheard and unanswered as I recalled she is no more in this mortal realm. I was sweating and my heart was thumping fast. I came to my senses and realized it is just a dream. In my dream, I educed, I was in deep slumber. In a way, I was at both places, in this world and a dream. It seems as if I had experienced bilocation for the first time.