Last night, I slipped into sleep a little late. My dreams, as always, were scattered and mysterious—but what I remember clearly is the one that came to me right before dawn.
In this dream, I was in Rishikesh, a sacred city surrounded by the whispers of the Ganga and the echoes of peace. I was preparing to return home, packing my things, feeling both tired and a little relieved. The streets bustled with their usual morning rhythm, and I was on my way when I saw a boy from my village. His presence pulled me closer, and I approached him.
He wasn't alone—his little daughter was with him, tugging at his sleeve, asking for food. Her eyes were tired but hopeful, as if she knew hunger too well. He seemed hesitant, his pockets likely empty. I could feel the weight of his struggle. Without a second thought, I handed him some money and gently told him to feed his daughter. It was a small gesture, but his eyes thanked me more than his words could.
After that, I picked up my bag and headed to the bus stand. When I boarded, I noticed that the front seats were empty. I asked the driver if I could sit there, but he said no. "We're taking a different route today," he said, in a tone that felt both strange and final.
A little confused, I moved back through the narrow aisle. A kind young man offered me a seat next to him. I accepted and sat down, trying to focus on the changing scenery. But something was odd. The bus wasn't following regular roads. It seemed to weave through alleys, almost as if it were moving through people's houses. I could see families sitting inside their living rooms as we passed through. It didn't make sense.
Finally, the highway came into view, and I felt a sense of normalcy return—only for a moment. I told the driver to drop me off near my village. He glanced at me through the rearview mirror and said, "We've already passed it. We're too far now."
I was shocked.
I had no choice but to get off at a place unfamiliar and strange. I was alone… or so I thought. As I looked around, I saw many people standing there, waiting, wandering, talking. That calmed me a little. I wasn't completely alone.
But all I had in my hands was a broom and a single file. My bag was gone.
Panic set in. I started searching everywhere—near benches, inside stalls, under bus seats. No luck. Then, in a quiet corner, I noticed a bag lying untouched. Nobody seemed to claim it. I walked toward it with cautious hope. As I opened it, my heart sank—it wasn't mine.
Still confused, I looked around again. That's when I remembered the place where I'd last seen my bag had CCTV cameras. Maybe someone could help me trace it.
I approached a man nearby who looked like he worked there. I told him my situation. He agreed to check the camera footage, and just his willingness gave me a bit of relief.
When I stepped back outside from the building, something unexpected happened. I saw Pooja Bhatt, the actress. She was standing all alone, looking different—older, quiet, almost like she was trying to stay invisible. No one around seemed to recognize her.
But I did.
I walked up to her and said, "Ma'am, can I take a selfie with you?" She smiled softly and nodded.
I pulled out my phone—but just then, it glitched. The screen went black. Frozen.
Before I could say anything else, she quietly turned and walked away. It was like she had only been there for that one moment.
Feeling disappointed, I looked around—and there it was. In a quiet corner, my bag.
It was dusty and slightly opened, but it was mine. I checked inside—everything was intact. Relief washed over me like a gentle wave. But now, a new worry settled in.
It was nightfall.
The roads were dark, empty. Getting home from here felt impossible. I didn't know the area well. I couldn't risk traveling alone at night.
I walked further and saw a small house with lights still on. I knocked and asked if I could stay the night. A man opened the door, looked me up and down, and said, "You can stay—but only if you dance for us."
His voice wasn't threatening, but it was sharp, almost like a test.
For a second, I froze. But I nodded. I stepped into their dimly lit hall and began to move. I danced—not like a performer, but like a survivor. It wasn't about rhythm; it was about dignity. As I twirled slowly, I felt my spirit rising above the awkwardness.
Just then—
I woke up.
It was morning.
The dream was over, but its emotion lingered, stuck in my chest like unspoken words.
Author's Thought
This dream, like many of mine, carries pieces of my real life—fear, kindness, confusion, survival. I don't know why my soul chooses to show me these strange worlds while I sleep, but maybe it's because my real world is already full of struggle.
I want to thank you, dear reader, for stepping into my dream world again. If this dream reminded you of anything—any helpless moment, any strange kindness from a stranger—please tell me in the comments.
And if my stories ever touch your heart, I hope you'll consider supporting me with a gift. I write with truth, pain, and a little hope—and your support helps me keep going.