Pro Vyder vs Easy Ryder

The bed’s wet. Yes, the sex was nice last evening but surely, after all these years, not all that much. It could be the wheezing generator managing to control it’s asthma, and sleeping a bit longer through a power-cut. And if I’m definitely not sweating, it could be the glass of water on the side-table, used to getting knocked around by sleepy, groping hands every night.

But that’s not the worst of this muggy night. For Enlightenment sometimes creeps through vivid dreams in precisely such conditions. And horrors, often in stereophonic fashion, trouble comes in doubles, just like one learnt in school.

So what’s that I see? That nice self-assured chap in in a perfect haircut and khakis, sporting a designer watch and smiling at me as he sips his expensive wine—surely I know him, for it’s me. Written your appraisals in office? Said your prayers? Hugged your son? Serviced the car? Got the leaky commode fixed? And yes, paid the credit card and mobile phone bills in time? I can see him cock his head to a side and amusedly ask all that in his deep, sonorous, accent-trained, almost theatrical voice.

God, it’s 3 am and we’re power-less. I don’t want to deal with this, this demon right now. Maybe in the morning, when I’m armed with my deo and laptop and blackberry and I’m on familiar territory, cocooned in my comfortable car. But right now, I want him to disappear and let me get on with my REM sleep.

But one thing’s crystal clear. He’s not the only one around. For as I blink, I see the other one. Tousled hair, unshaven with smelly armpits, in sneakers and Tshirt-jeans he must’ve borrowed from his son. Now, where’ve I seen him before? In the market, making eyes at that little 18-year old chick last Sunday, or in a Rajnikant-type B-grade Bollywood imitation? Wait a minute, isn’t he the bloke you grew up with through school and college—yeah sure, he’s changed a bit, the hair’s thinning a little, but, but it’s unmistakeably the same guy. Yes, it’s you again!

Doubles? You crazy? You didn’t even touch alcohol last evening (which perhaps is why the sex was good anyway!) I rub my eyes in disbelief, but no. there’s no denying the fact. And the likeness. Right, OK, so you’re in a double role in your dream, big deal. It’s your own, and who’s to stop you from casting yourself in multiple, not just double roles, dammit? But what’re these gentlemen trying to tell you?

That your mother didn’t tell you, but you were destined to have a Dr Jekyll Mr Hyde type split personality? Cold sweat happens. Followed quickly by the Eureka bit (there must be some connection between Eureka and water, your subconscious notes)! For these are but two facets of yourself, you realize. Mr Pro Vyder, and Mr Easy Ryder. One, the guy who looks after the world around you, and the other a happy-go-lucky bastard who cocks a snook at anything wordly.

You look closer, as Mr Vyder thunders at his double: “You good for nothing! Where were you when they were teaching you to shoulder responsibility? Ever seen how I bend backwards to cater to every whim and fancy of the entire family, even if it’s at the cost of myself? Why can’t you learn to selflessly serve those around you? And by the way, just what do you thing you’re wearing? Can’t you dress and look your age? Why don’t you shower every now and then?

You turn to see the response from Mr Ryder, and it’s not quite what you expect. For he doesn’t shout back but just smiles, runs his hands through his unkept hair, and looks Mr Vyder in the eye. Cocking his head to one side, he remarks, “But do you have fun? I do! So bugger off you bully.” And so saying he walks towards Mr Vyder, unhesitatingly, straight into him and morphs into the poor chap.

Disbelievingly I stare, as the duo, become one and slowly turn into vapour. Vapour that distributes and sits heavy in the dark humid night. Suddenly, with a start, the airconditioner hums back to life and the fan whirrs. I open my eyes, but only halfway, and feel my body with my sweaty palms—still one thankfully—no cracks—at least not on my physical self. And turn over, you might say, with the contented sigh of one who’s received Enlightenment in a Power-Cut.