This document is a collection of diary entries and dreams from a woman named Alex Destiny about her relationship and marriage to her husband Jimmy. The entries describe their nightly coffee ritual on the roof, followed by disturbing nightmares where Alex finds Jimmy behaving violently or her own dead body. She questions what is real and wakes up distressed. The dreams leave her feeling unsettled and make her question her relationship with Jimmy.

1. DREAMS
APR 27
If you sneak to the roof of our home,
somewhere towards the corner you will
come across a wooden bench. There is
nothing extraordinary about it except
for the fact that it is extremely old. So
old that it screams in protest every time
we sit on it. But it means a lot to us all
the same for this is where we sip our
elixir of love each night and fall for each other a little more. What is our
elixir of love? Well, it is just plain brewed coffee but maybe I call it so
because as I drink in its aroma before taking an actual sip, all those
twinkling little stars in the purple-black sky appear to be meticulously
placed romantic, burning candles—just the wrong shade; or maybe
because as I drink it, I yearn to touch his lovely black curls even more.
But then he calls me his Silly Darling Angel whenever I list these reasons
so maybe I do it for I love being called so.
“Jimmy, put me down!” I protest with a giggle as he carries me down
the stairs. He manages to carry the empty coffee mugs too making it
even more urgent for me to ask him to put me down. “I’m a strong man
you know,” he replies faking a hurt face. I laugh and repeat, “Of course.
A strong man.” “Why. You doubt it, girl?” he mimics a villain’s angry
voice and drawls, “Maybe then I’ll just let go of you and take pleasure
in watching you tumble down the stairs slowly and hit the wall as your
face turns rich crimson with warm blood…” I fake a disgusted face and
snap, “Mr. Villain, stop being so morbid!” and at this both of us laugh….

2. Hello! This is Alex Destiny. Jimmy is my husband and I am his oasis in
the desert. But I guess you already know how much in love we are so I’ll
just skip that part. (Laugh) Other things that you should know about
me: I have been happily married for two years now. I majored in
Human Psychology and know my job pretty well but then I am a
homebody through and through. So you will find me-At home. And…I
have a knack for attracting nightmares... They come to me in all shapes
and sizes. Sometimes they haunt me for days but I live through it. After
all, I have Jimmy! (Smile)
I.
The ache in the upper midsection of my body is so profound; each atom
there must be sizzling in some very concentrated
acid. To breathe love, eat love and talk love is to live in the realm of
fantasy and this right now is my reality check.
“Jimmy, you want to live here”, I mumble. Unsure if I mean it as a
question or a statement. In front of me stands a two-storey house
which can be best described as haunted- Ivy creeps through its dull
walls giving it a chilly décor and hungry eyes seem to be glaring at you
from those many dark windows but it’s wide open door is the most
unnerving sight of all. It looks like the trapdoor to hell; tempting you to
enter it…never to open again.
Jimmy starts for the door never answering my query. I want to tell him
to not to enter the house but it’s already too late. So instead I try to dial
down the empty feeling and follow him.
The house is completely dark. All I can do is go after Jimmy’s footsteps.
With each step taken, the place seems to turn even creepier. “Jimmy,
how do you plan on surviving this place?” I blurt out when that is the
last question I want answered. Silence.

3. I try to swallow the drastically forming lump in my neck but as much as I
wish they would not, tears dribble down my cheeks. And just then, we
reach a dimly lit part of the house. There he finally turns to face me.
And the first thing I notice is his eyes. They look mutated. An eerie mad
glint has replaced his tender gaze. I shudder. This version of him is an
absolute shock to behold. Everything seems too quick for me to process
after that. At some point, he pins me to the wall, takes out an axe and
aims it at me. My thinking misty, I act on the adrenaline.
My heart is thumping frantically against my ribs as I desperately search
for an escape….
I wake up to find myself sweating and shivering at once. My head feels
like it has landed on millions of pins and needles. My heart beat is far
from slowing down and I understand why people claim that fear is the
best laxative. But I feel too weak to even lift a finger. I can vaguely
make out Jimmy snoring lightly beside me. I want to ask him to hug me
tightly but I am under. Deeply this time…
II.
I am standing across our home. I slowly move forward trying to make
sense of what is going on. Sirens are wailing. Three to four cars are
parked in our front yard. Police cars. The door is wide open and I can
hear indistinct voices inside. They have blocked the door with a broad
yellow tape with ‘Crime Scene’ inked on it but I manage to pass in,
unnoticed.
A group of Forensics is brushing off the surfaces leading to our
bedroom. And I am suddenly aware of my hands shaking. They have
turned clammy. Just then, a large man with a grumpy face and an air of
authority steps out of the bedroom. One look at him and I decide that I
do not like him. But it is what he says that makes me hate him-even
though nothing he says is making any sense to me.

4. “People, toss that limb back to the body and cover it!” The verb he
uses- toss is horrible in its simplicity. Children toss balls… and he is
asking someone to toss a… limb… I wipe my hands in my night gown as I
enter…
I clutch the table for support as I feel the nausea kicking in. Horror
curdles in my stomach. On our bed is a distorted body, covered with
white cloth up to the neck. And what must have once been a head
looks nothing more than a big lump of minced meat now… I let out a
shriek and realise for the first time that no one seems to notice me...
I attempt to call a woman with a sorry expression on her face but a
young man entering with our coffee mugs catches my attention. Right
after him the grumpy man enters too. I learn he is called Detective
Lector. “So what do we have here?” Detective Lector asks the young
man. “Sir, the tests show that one of the coffee mugs had a lethal dose
of Cannabis; drug that induces sleep.” “Humphrey, I think I know what
Cannabis is. Thank you very much,” said Detective Lector, “and only
one of the coffee mugs… What do you think this means?” Humphrey
looks practically embarrassed and quickly answers, “Sorry Sir” and
adds, “I think this is why the victim, Alex Destiny, had an easy death;
she was unconscious throughout the act.” Someone says, “Poor girl….
To be married to a psychopath…” My head is reeling. I do not think I
can bear this nonsense anymore but the one named Humphrey is still
talking, “And Sir, her blood tests show that she had been taking
Cannabis for two years now. In a moderate amount though.” “Given.”
corrects Lector….
And I smile. Of course…of course it is just another nightmare, isn’t it?
Surely, I’ll wake up anytime now with a start and everything will be fine.
But to have nightmares two times in a row at the same night… this is
too much! I should not have slept after that first wretched nightmare!
My Jimmy… a psychopath? I feel guilty even though I know that dreams
cannot be controlled. I slowly move towards the bed and lie beside the

5. corpse with eyes tightly shut. But the voices do not seem to fade
away………
UN 01 - Let’s assume that I, the writer, don’t know where and how this
conversation actually took place. So now you, the reader, are free to
imagine and create your own visions and images regarding this matter.
Just assume there is a couple—a beautiful girl and a handsome boy. If
you are a boy, just imagine you are that boy. If you are a girl, just
imagine you are that girl. Now you are my character. This is your story.
You already know what is going to happen in this story. Nevertheless,
you want to read it. This is going to be a boring love story, and yet there
is this vague underlying intense feeling that forces you to read it. So,
now, you take a deep breath and being to read the story, titled Dreamy
Conversations seriously. I, the writer, become happy to share with you
this dreamy story.
She lives in the eastern part of the globe. He lives in the western part of
the same globe. When she wakes up, the first thing she says to him is
“Good night”. And before he closes his eyes to sleep, the last thing he
says to her is “Good morning! And, have a good day”. When it’s time
for her to sleep, she promises to meet him in her dream. And, the next
day, they talk about their meeting in their respective dreams. She says
she came to meet him in the form of the wind. He says he was standing
outside the restaurant where he works just to feel her. He says he
danced like crazy when the musical wind that carried her fragrance
blew his long and silky hair. And in his dream, the boy goes to meet her
in the form of food. She chews the food very slowly in her college
canteen at
break time and devours it fully as she can taste and smell the heady
fragrance of his clean body in every bite.

6. She loves to eat. He loves to drink. She loves to sing. He loves to dance.
She loves to read. He loves to write. They both love each other. They
talk about love and life. She asks some profound questions regarding
life and he ponders for a long time before he rep-lies. She is always
satisfied with his answer. He answers in such a way that the questions
dissolve on their own. When there are no more questions, there is no
need for the answer as well. She tells him that he is her teacher. She
requests him to be his ‘mind-guard’.
“If we were together, I would make you my body guard,” she says.
“Why would you take such a risk?” he says, “If there ever were to be an
emergency, it would be you who would be protecting me. I know you
are stronger than me, for you eat more than I do.”
She laughs like crazy. And, he joins her. And both of them laugh so hard
that the birds sleeping in the branches of peepal trees wake up and
flutter their wings in irritation. Some neighbours even mistake the
laugher for a thunder storm and go out to check the sky.
“Will you be my permanent friend?” she asks seriously.
“Like the permanent marker?” he turns it into a joke and tries to make
her laugh.
But this time she is serious, and says, “I asked because you know
nothing in this world lasts forever. Everything is impermanent. I always
pray to god that our friendship lasts forever.”
“Yes, you are right. I will accept everything that happens in my life.
Even if we might not be ‘permanent friends’, I will accept it. What I can
assure you is that my acceptance will be permanent,” he replies after
contemplating for long time.
Sometimes he shares his beautiful poems about life with her and she is
filled with happiness and joy. She likes to read every word he writes.

7. “I once asked a stone,
‘Would you fly if God were to give you wings?’
And she said, ‘I am in love with the Earth.
She reads it and a smile forms on her lips. Her face brightens. “Wow!”
she muses.
“How do you manage to write such beautiful poems?” she asks.
“You are my inspiration,” he says. “When I think of you, my imagination
runs fiercely, like a wild horse, my creative energy begins to overflow,
every cell in my body feels warm and begins to dance. Not able to
contain such bliss, I try sharing it by writing poetry.”
“I felt happy to know that I am your inspiration. Perhaps, I became your
inspiration because you always inspire me to be inspiring. Dear, the
truth is that we inspire one another and that’s the beauty of our
friendship.”
“I wonder how wonderful it would be if the word friendship were
actually friendkiss. It makes more sense—one friend kissing another,
one friend helping another, one friend inspiring another,” he says.
“Haudey,” she says. Crazy.
Sometimes she asks him to share his thoughts on the problems she has
with the people and circumstances around her.
“How would you act if one of your friends gets proudly all of a sudden
and puts you in a state where you feel you are uncounted? And, in
addition to this, that person makes you feel bad about yourself?” she
asks. “I want to get heart soothing advice from you.”
“Oh! If you want advice that soothes your heart, I can give you many.
But if you want to be honest with yourself then that’s not the right

8. choice. What is reality? Reality is what you are experiencing right now.
To want to hear good and encouraging answers means you don’t want
to face the realities—like accepting feelings of being uncounted or
ignored. If you try to find some ways to hide these feelings then it
might make you feel good for now, but there will come times and
situations in life where all these bad feelings, emotions and thoughts
will come flooding back, and again you will have to search for a way out
of it. So my genuine advice is—do nothing. Be open to everything that
is happening within and without you. Don’t try to repress those bad
feelings. Let them appear and pass. Feel bad so completely that there is
only the feeling there, not a separate feeler,” he advises.
“Your answer is satisfactory,” she says.
“Welcome... I will always be there to welcome you all... I welcome
happiness, joy, fun, excitement, love, compassion, wisdom, insight... I
welcome sadness, misery, suffering, hatred, delusion, jealousy... All of
you are equally alive energies... This should be your attitude,” he says.
“Stop lecturing now,” she says smilingly. “Haudey”
You, the handsome boy, returns home from work. It’s already midnight.
On the way, you look up towards the sky and see thousands of stars
and a beautiful full moon. “How generous the stars and moon are!” he
thinks. “The stars keep twinkling and the moon keeps shining no matter
what I think or how I act. How unconditional the love is.” He
remembers the famous poem by Hafiz.
“Even after all this time
The Sun never says to the Earth,
“You owe me.”
Look what happens with a love like thatIt lights the whole sky.”

9. He reaches home, takes a shower and makes himself some strong black
coffee. He lies on his bed, deep in thought. He runs his
eyes around all directions of the ceiling and finds nothing that could
grasp his attention. Today, he is a bit sentimental. He might spend the
entire night writing poetry, who knows?
Something is happening to him, something beautiful. His heart feels
wet. Every cell in his body feels awakened. Though his body is fully
exhausted, his inner system seems to be working calmly. All of a sudden
he has this strong urge to hug and kiss all the seven billion people of
the world. There occurred an explosion inside him, the seed of love
finally broke and bloomed into a giant flower full of fragrance. He is
drowning into the ocean of love. And nobody can save him.
“You know what,” he says. “I want our relationship to be like that of
The Sun and The Earth.”
She remains silent. There is no reply and this makes his heart ache.
All of a sudden, he senses the wind that carried her fragrance blowing
silently right inside his room. And the wind whispers something inside
his right ear that surprises him so much that he remains awake the
entire night…
The Mona Lisa smile
AUG 10
Only two things in the world mattered to Wilson. First, the famous
Mona Lisa. She had been an inseparable element of his life. He carried
her everywhere. Was it her eyes, her face, or her smile? He wasn't sure
about the feature that fascinated him the most.

10. The second was his private diary. It contained the portrait of his life and
had been with him ever since he remembered.
Mona Lisa covered the skeletons in his cupboard. More precisely, her
image was printed on the cover of his journal, the one book that
securely held all the chapters of his life. So, whenever he thought of
one, the others would automatically tumble out.
He was an old man now, past seventy. He owned a white mansion with
a fine garden. The iron fence and the gate were both painted white. A
respectable old gentleman leading a lonely retired life in a sleepy
countryside: What on earth could possibly go wrong?
Among others, an industrious middle-aged couple worked for him. The
husband looked after the garden; the wife was the housekeeper.
*****
â€oeSir, this is our son, Joe. He's a waiter in the city and is here for a
month. Has nowhere to stay. He'll sleep in the attic, Sir.― The
gardener stood before his employer, twisting his scruffy hat awkwardly.
â€oeBut only with your permission, of course.―
â€oePlease switch on the light, David. It's getting rather dark. I want to
have a look at your son.― Wilson was having a quiet smoke by
himself. Nevertheless, the young man from the city aroused a certain
curiosity.
The lad was about six feet tall, hardly twenty. He was dressed in faded
jeans and a plain T-shirt. His dyed hair was short. One eyebrow was
pierced, and he hadn't shaved for days. Looks a lot like his mother!
Wilson thought, his eyes scanning the boy.
â€oeYou must take off that awful ring and be a little more presentable if
you wish to stay here, my boy,― he said, finally.
The youngster didn't react. But his father politely promised to follow
the old man's wishes. Even as they left the room, Wilson's scrutinizing
eyes followed the boy. There was something troubling about the lad.
Meanwhile, the sluggish country life continued routinely.
The boy was quiet and reserved for his age. He seldom smiled but
worked hard. Roughly shaven and neatly dressed, he looked handsome.

11. Nothing was visibly wrong with him. He was normal. Too normal
Wilson's instincts had never failed him. And presently, they were
getting sharper, just like they used to, many years ago.
Wilson had become habituated to his peaceful saunter in the woods
after dinner. In any other place, it would be unsafe, at this hour, for an
old man like him. But nothing untoward could happen here. Some
rabbits and squirrels moved about every now and then. Other than
that, there wasn't anything to worry about.
He knew something was wrong the minute he stepped inside the
house. â€oeWhere's Joe, Nancy?―
â€oeSir, he's gone to bed. Has a headache. Nothing serious,
though.―
Wilson nodded thoughtfully. But for some reasons he couldn't sleep
well that night.
*****
It was the next morning when it happened.
â€oePlease believe me, Officer. There's nothing to check here…―
â€oeWe're just doing our duty. We must see the master of the
house.―
â€oeWhat is it, David? Are you anxious about something?― Wilson
asked while coming down, feeling slightly unwell owing to lack of sleep
last night.
A uniformed officer appeared.
â€oeMr Wilson, I must talk to you about some stolen jewels. Sir,
through our most reliable sources, we've come to know that these
items are here, in this house. They were stolen by a waiter named Joe
from one of the richest people of the country when she stayed at the
deluxe hotel where he worked.―
Suddenly, a bell rang somewhere. The boy! Now Wilson knew. But he
couldn't let the police know…
â€oeWe've been ordered to search this place, Sir,― the officer said
again.

12. â€oeI understand, officer. But before that, could I have a word with
you?― Wilson's tone was composed. The couple had turned pale.
Wilson was sure they were unaware of their son's notoriety. He
courteously led the official into the living room.
â€oeOfficer, the old people here, gentle as they are, unfortunately have
a son who can't be trusted. But he apparently escaped last night. So
there's no point in searching the house. You can take my word that
nobody else has the faintest idea about the matter in question.―
â€oeMr. Wilson, we've received orders to search your house. So, if
you'll allow me…― the officer was adamant.
Oh God! thought Wilson. â€oeOfficer…―
â€oePlease Sir. I'm sure you'll help the law.― The officer pressed on
with a reverential smile, leaving Wilson with no other option but to
step out of the way.
As the police swept the mansion, the servants crouched in a corner
while Wilson calmly sat in an armchair, smoking and flipping through
the Mona Lisa log. Anytime now!
At last, the officer reappeared, carrying a strong metal box, unlocked
now. And when he spoke, the note in his voice was as clear as his facial
expression. â€oeMr Wilson, I'm afraid...―
Wilson slowly looked up and smiled. â€oeI'm ready, Officer. Can I just
finish smoking this cigar?―
*****
Wilson had a past, a thrilling, terrifying past. He had been a thief, a
robber, a smuggler, a dangerous criminal. In short, he was everything
that decent parents would never want their children to end up being.
Although a good deal of the loot had already been sold, some part of it
remained safely locked inside a sturdy metal box in his bedroom. He
had constantly eluded the law, having always been clever and careful.
That is, until now.
Wilson had come face-to-face with a younger version of himself
through Joe — ambitious, with the same indomitable aura of fire,

13. fearlessness, and ferocity around him. Perhaps because of this, despite
his obvious and repeated hunches, he had taken a liking for the boy and
allowed him to stay in his house. It was a terrible mistake. But even so,
it wasn't everyday that you got to meet yourself!
â€oeWell,― he said to the officer, â€oeWe all meet our Joes
eventually, when the time comes!―
After the last puff, he smiled at the Mona Lisa on the cover of his diary.
She smiled back.
The Artist
FEB 09
I am sitting quietly on my wooden rocker. The sound of the wind
astounds me as I watch the stars, just emerging as if in mystic troops
above me, in the rose-purple sky. From here, I can see the horizon
clearly; shades of orange, pink and violet appear as beautiful as a
painting created by a masterful artist, an artist who lives behind those
cavernous cliffs, up on the ethereal clouds.
The artist has managed to meticulously clash all these beautiful
colours—one against the other, almost opposites shades in the
spectrum—to create the perfect image of dusk; the kind in which light
blends into darkness creating ‘the dawn of the night’ as some call it. I
have known people who have believed that each day is special, a
creation of his divine hands, crafted into existence on leisurely
afternoons. I have known people
who have worshipped the artist for all the splendour he’s bestowed
upon our world, and those who have always believed the artist hides in
his mythological abode, invisible to all, their only reverence to him
being their belief in his existence.

14. I too have known an artist, very much unlike the one who paints the sky
and fuels the sun. I have known an artist whose words don’t rhyme at
all. I have known he who doesn’t know art and has no secret hideout.
He is a dreamer and his dreams are all masterpieces, unleashed, one
after another, in the gallery of his mind. He is my artist; the solemn
deity I worship.
I remember the very first time we met. It was a frosty December day,
painted in sepia-tones; dull decor for such a great day, as far as I was
concerned. The artist I met soon painted my heart
in startling hues of red.
Incapable of fathoming the depth of these colours, I dived into his
ocean completely. And he stood by my side, resplendent in his artistry.
Everything about him—his tufts of curly black hair, the non-coherent
streaks of misery on his face—asserted that he existed for a purpose.
The adoration in his eyes, ever so slight, hints of rogue colour almost,
always managed to take me by surprise. My heart pounded inside my
chest as I looked into those eyes. No sooner would his eyes stop looking
at mine than a gust of nervousness would sweep me away. I couldn’t
get rid of those fine strokes of pink blush he painted on my cheeks
then. “Will you let me walk by your side?” he asked and I could not say
No.
He had been an artist on the verge of creating his finest work then. An
artist so adept at hypnotising his subject that his mere presence could
enrich the latter’s existence. I was glad that he was the artist who had
managed to run his magic brush against my cheeks. I, his subject, had
been hypnotised, enriched. Walking by his side, I dwelled on the beauty
the moment. “If only there were no goodbyes,” I thought as the wide
road ahead of us branched and we inevitably separated.
nnn

15. My artist didn’t come to find me again. He visited my dreams though;
wearing those brown-sapphire eyes that reflected the deep oceans and
vast skies. He had painted my fantasies in the galleries that hid beneath
those eyes. I would never see the brown-sapphire again and yet
continued to worship the artist who had painted my cheeks pink. The
rest of the world, however, adored he who could sweep the harsh cold
away and hand humanity its spring.
The sky turned an eternal blue and the sun shone golden bright but I
continued to think of my lost artist. After months of waiting I realised
that my own canvas was blank. I was a mere subject, a forgotten
subject. The red with which my heart had been painted on the cold
December day seemed messy already but I couldn’t do anything about
my dreams, about the artist’s nightly visits. I would have to learn to
abandon them silently.
If I could lend words to my dreams, they would rhyme like a beautiful
sonnet. If I could paint them, they would come out as beautiful
rainbows—happiness and love in every colour. As a document, they
would be no less than fairytales; as songs, they would be beautiful
duets. I would be the artist then, and he my subject.
But those dreams haunted me. My subject never showed up and I, the
artist, did not know how to get the colours right.
If it were love I was experiencing I would paint it red. I would flood my
heart with blood and smash it right into his dreamy eyes. If it were hate
I was experiencing, I would paint it dark, muddle the sapphire sky with
black and create the darkest night ever. If it were longing I was
experiencing, I would paint infinity; conceal all the emblems of space in
white.
The months continued to swirl past. The invisible artist from heaven
continued to enchant the earth; his magnificence reflecting in the
paddy field as the golden grains swayed in the wind and the emerald

16. reflected from the damp earth. And I continued to splash red and black,
day after day, night after night. Never did I realise that I couldn’t mix
colours for there was no artist inside me. I was merely stroking blanks
with my brush; driving my longing for him into unfathomable pain.
“But I can weave words; words of love, tragedy and longing,” said the
voices inside my head one day. “I can make a fable of that December
day when a young girl met a dreamer. I can paint sapphire and sepia in
words if not colours; I can tell the tale of how a girl fell for an artist. And
on that day, when it’s done, I can go and find him.”
I knew I would struggle with a heap of words. “The fable would not
sound like a song if I messed up.” I had to create a masterpiece and
present it to him. On the day, when I would meet him again, he would
paint the fable for me; he would stroke his magic brush over my cheeks
and enrich life with the colours of love.
I happened to walk through the same street again when the artist in
the sky howled in agony. He was roaring in anger, dissipating his tears.
With an umbrella in one hand and my fable in another, I watched the
sky. I stood on the same spot I had been standing on when we had first
met. How the sombre artist living behind those clouds had transfigured
the sky into a war-field; there was clangourous thunder and there were
rusty brown fumes.
It was an outburst following a tragedy. Had I not met my artist that day,
my fate might have had something similar in store for me. But he was
there; a dream-like apparition smiling at me. “You disappeared for so
long. I
have been waiting for you here,” he said, with a tint of sapphire in his
eyes.
“Why did you not come to see me again? All the while I have been
waiting for you, on my street,” I told him. I had acted idiotically; instead

17. of trying to find him, I had been waiting, like a mourning widow for his
arrival. “I have always believed an artist runs after his subject,” I told
him, to hide my embarrassment. I wanted to smash the red from my
heart right into his eyes but instead I asked him if he could paint.
“I can’t. I’m not artist. But I can sing,” he said.
I smiled back. “Can you sing this fable for me then?”