The wandering Geography of the Soul

 

The Wandering Geography of the Soul

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” — John Lennon

Do you dream — and truly remember what drifts through your mind when sleep takes you? Or do they vanish like morning mist, leaving only fragments — a colour, a sound, a fleeting feeling that seems both familiar and strange? Are they painted in vivid detail, whispered in shadow, or glimpsed in that twilight between memory and imagination? I dream often — vague, strange dreams that sometimes feel more real than waking life.

I have often found myself atop tall buildings, ledges, and hills — frozen, unsure how to descend, only to awaken in a cold sweat. I have spoken to strangers whose faces seemed half-remembered, boarded trains to nameless destinations, wandered through markets alive with colour, and soared above trees that glitter in morning light. In an hour, I have known terror and wonder, met those long departed, attended unseen meetings, and done the impossible — and it all felt real.

Sometimes, I find myself in Allahabad — wandering St. Joseph’s or The Boys’ High School, hearing bells and laughter, or strolling through Civil Lines, passing shops alive with colour and chatter. I pause, breathing in the smells and sounds, waiting to meet something lost but not forgotten. Often, these dreams bring people who have passed, their faces luminous, their presence quiet but unmistakable. The streets, the shops, the quiet stir of early morning — they pull me back. And in the same breath, they push me forward into another world.

From there, I drift to Pune. Bishop’s School rises before me, sunlight catching the windows as boys dart across the field. Even in serious moments, dreams wander into humour. I remember teaching Shakespeare, glancing at the boys — a few quietly daydreaming, one replaying a recent crush, another composing an ode to newfound love. I smiled. Even the Bard would have been amused.

Dreams are mysterious. I even have a book on dream interpretation, though it feels mostly generic. Still, the allure remains — trying to decode these nightly wanderings, knowing that the real meaning may lie only in the feeling of the dream itself.

Then, as if the world tilts, I am in Dubai — a city of glass and gold, humming with restless energy. I walk through school halls where the desert wind hums against tall windows. Familiar faces greet me — some from here, some from elsewhere. Allahabad merges with Sharjah, Pune with Dubai. Borders dissolve. Time folds. Memory and imagination entwine.

Through it all, there is movement — a quiet current carrying me from one life to another. Sometimes, I remember every detail: the sunlight on a classroom window, the laughter of a child, the scent of guavas by the river. Other times, the journey vanishes, leaving only a trace — a feeling, a sound, a whisper. Then, a song or a scent returns the dream — alive and complete.

There are dreams within dreams — layers folding inward — until I rise, uncertain of what is real. And then it occurs to me: all this wandering, these impossible journeys, these encounters, unfold in that secret realm where reason sleeps.

Perhaps dreams are the soul’s quiet pilgrimage — a nightly unbinding from the body, a silent voyage through time and memory, before returning in that single, sacred instant of morning. Dreams are not merely escapism; they are the soul’s subtle way of exploring, experimenting, and sometimes manifesting the worlds we long for.

And in that fragile moment between sleep and day, I linger — feeling the echo of all I have lived and loved, all I have feared and imagined. Perhaps both worlds are true, entwined like threads of the same tapestry. Perhaps each night, we do not merely dream — we remember, we wander, we live again, and glimpse, if only for a moment, the boundless possibilities of being