Your past is never lost. It sits deep inside the dark bottom of
the well and waits to be summoned. In dreams there is no security
control. Freed from the tyranny of your waking volition, it flies
heedless into the unexplored possibilities of your heart, scraping out
lost conversations and ones that were never held except as quantum
possibilities. In dreams you do what you never do in your waking life:
look straight at your past, at the quaking face of what you are and what
you have done or not done. Dreams are truth, the things you evade and
that cannot be part of your workable life. Truth is not convenient. It
disturbs. But it is there and raps on your door, the black door of the
eye of night, shut against the light of day and the rebirth of purpose.
I woke up in the early hours and had a drink of water. Then I went back into an uneasy sleep, knowing that in a couple of hours more I would have to wake up and go to work. It wasn’t going to be a typical day: I am a teacher in secondary school and we had exams all day, many of which I was responsible for.
In my dream, which was as glaringly real as a waking experience, I had left my rucksack behind in a pub, somewhere in England where I used to live. I had gone to another pub and discovered my mistake. There was a confusing situation and I asked the pub owner to call me a taxi so I could speed back and hopefully retrieve my rucksack.
The pub was brightly lit with globe-style overhead lights and the ceiling was studded with spotlights. I was in the restaurant area. The place was crowded, noisy and steaming. I was sat down waiting to be told my taxi had arrived. A queue of customers shuffled past with the hot glass counters of food behind them and women in white uniforms and hats doling it out.
And suddenly I saw my brother, Rajat, who I hadn’t seen in over thirty years. I blinked a couple of times in astonishment and gaped at him. He looked right back at me blankly and then a slow, curious look of recognition came into his eyes. Hesitantly, he moved out of the queue and came slowly towards me.
He hadn’t changed at all. He looked exactly the same! Very tall… and I am only five nine. Slim…I am podgy. We couldn’t be more different, physically. His round face still had slight red spots, as a teenager might have. His hair was slicked down with a strong parting and combed flat, like Europeans did in the nineteen fifties, and as he always wore it, even when I had last seem him. His face, however, was different. The last time I saw him he was troubled, confused, despairing. A deep depression accompanied by hallucinatory voices and disturbing images tormented him day and night. Now his face was calm, but solemn, even subdued.
I wrestled my way past other sitting customers, nearly spilling someone’s drink. There were mutterings from the table but I ignored them.
“Rajat! Is it you? Where have you been all this time?”
He gave me a slow, sad smile. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Everything’s under control. It’s good to see you.” He looked and sounded absolutely sober, totally composed and clear. His eyes were clear and his face calm and grave.
I noticed two strange things. Rajat and I are Indians. Indians, typically, have brown or brown hazel eyes, and we were typical. But now Rajat’s eyes were a clear, unflecked green, luminous as torchlight, with not a fleck of brown in them at all. It made his face stand out, eyes so eerily green, but somehow this seemed entirely natural. I think these thoughts upon later reflection but at the time I could not decide if there was anything different about his eyes. It crossed swiftly through my mind, like a lightning bolt, that I recognised the face and the look but not the colour of the eyes. But the clear mutual recognition convinced me at the time that I must be mistaken: his eyes obviously were, and always had been, green. I obviously couldn’t remember him well enough.
A huge wave of emotion pulled me down like a heavy wave, choking me. All these years. What he had suffered. And I couldn’t help so I ran away! Remorse, concern, guilt, affection for my brother, roiled confusedly through my mind. He looked steadily at me, arms gentle by his sides, saying nothing. He seemed to look at me almost with pity, certainly with affection, and a definite undertone of sadness. He said nothing but just looked.
I went up to him and put my arms around him. He was so tall my head only came up to his diaphragm. I pushed my head into the bottom of his chest and said, in a strangled voice, “Raji, I am really sorry I left India. I just had to go but I know I failed you somehow.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. His voice was gentle and calm.
“You haven’t got anything to be ashamed about. It’s just the way it had to be. We are seeds blowing in the air. The air takes us where it will. “
He didn’t have an Indian accent at all: he sounded just like me. A British accent, with a light hint of something different in it. It was as though he knew how I spoke and expressed myself and could do it effortlessly himself, and did so that I might be at ease.
I then noticed that he was encased from shoulders to waist in a light grey straitjacket. It looked like an armband used in blood pressure monitor kits and had faded black printed stuff over it, the logo of some company that made it. Odd I hadn’t noticed this before.
“I’ve got to get this thing off you,” I said. “What’s this you’re wearing? Why are you still in this?” I started tugging and pulling at the jacket. His arms were completely restrained by this jacket from shoulder to wrist, clamped to his sides. Had his arms not been free moments ago? I couldn’t remember. But now they were trapped in this thing. He was a prisoner. I struggled and he swayed with my exertions.
“Don’t try to remove it,” he said sadly. “I have to wear it. It is a requirement.”
I heard a telephone ringing in the distance, like an old Bell telephone, like the sort we used to have when we lived in our parent’s house in Delhi in the nineteen seventies.
“My time’s up,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Wait!” I said. “How will we stay in touch? Do you have a mobile phone?” He shook his head.
“What about email?” I shouted. He nodded. I grabbed my phone from my trouser pocket and swiped the screen open to log the email….
But he was gone. Then I saw someone pulling him away, down into the back of the queue. I tried to go after him but the press and throng of people was impossible. Finally, I wrestled my way out to the front door…but he was gone.
I woke up. The dream was as clear and bright as it was when I was actually still in the dream. I can see the lights and his face and tall figure. And the solemn, calm face, so different from the anguished, twisted one I remembered from the old days. And the sad, clear green eyes, luminous, unflecked with any trace of brown. Not the brown eyes, like mine I knew he had when I last saw him.
Rajat committed suicide in April of 1985.
"The lesson to be learned from this type of dream experience, said Jung, is to have no preconceived opinions about “the statements made by dreams.” Jung conceded that there is really no way to prove life after death. But such events as predeath visions, near-death experiences, and apparitions are hints that something survives death."
Source: Melvyn Morse M.D. and Paul Perry,'Closer to the Light.' 2011. Kindle Books.
Morse and Perry,discussing the near death experiences of children, cite afamous case from Carl Jung's classic study 'Memories, Dreams and Reflections' in which avision he had after the death of a friend was corroborated by evidence of which he had no prior knowledge. This enabled Jung to dismiss the fantasy hypothesis and lean towards the reality hypothesis of premonitional dreams. Jung also makes the point that 'proof' in terms of experimental science is impossible when dealing such phenomenabut in fact corroborative evidence widens our understanding and acceptance of a wider frame of reference for evidence than scientific. Unfortunately because of the huge success of science with material phenomena, it has become an intellectual fetish in our culture and narrowed our framework of reference in the search for Truth by identifying Science with Truth. We can see from anomalous phenomena such as corroborated premonitions that Science is part of Truth but not the whole of it. Whatever is, is part of Truth and of this Science can discover only a part because of its effective but self limiting methodology. Even Stephen Hawking, before he died,said as much though he remained a materialist to the end.
I woke up in the early hours and had a drink of water. Then I went back into an uneasy sleep, knowing that in a couple of hours more I would have to wake up and go to work. It wasn’t going to be a typical day: I am a teacher in secondary school and we had exams all day, many of which I was responsible for.
In my dream, which was as glaringly real as a waking experience, I had left my rucksack behind in a pub, somewhere in England where I used to live. I had gone to another pub and discovered my mistake. There was a confusing situation and I asked the pub owner to call me a taxi so I could speed back and hopefully retrieve my rucksack.
The pub was brightly lit with globe-style overhead lights and the ceiling was studded with spotlights. I was in the restaurant area. The place was crowded, noisy and steaming. I was sat down waiting to be told my taxi had arrived. A queue of customers shuffled past with the hot glass counters of food behind them and women in white uniforms and hats doling it out.
And suddenly I saw my brother, Rajat, who I hadn’t seen in over thirty years. I blinked a couple of times in astonishment and gaped at him. He looked right back at me blankly and then a slow, curious look of recognition came into his eyes. Hesitantly, he moved out of the queue and came slowly towards me.
He hadn’t changed at all. He looked exactly the same! Very tall… and I am only five nine. Slim…I am podgy. We couldn’t be more different, physically. His round face still had slight red spots, as a teenager might have. His hair was slicked down with a strong parting and combed flat, like Europeans did in the nineteen fifties, and as he always wore it, even when I had last seem him. His face, however, was different. The last time I saw him he was troubled, confused, despairing. A deep depression accompanied by hallucinatory voices and disturbing images tormented him day and night. Now his face was calm, but solemn, even subdued.
I wrestled my way past other sitting customers, nearly spilling someone’s drink. There were mutterings from the table but I ignored them.
“Rajat! Is it you? Where have you been all this time?”
He gave me a slow, sad smile. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “Everything’s under control. It’s good to see you.” He looked and sounded absolutely sober, totally composed and clear. His eyes were clear and his face calm and grave.
I noticed two strange things. Rajat and I are Indians. Indians, typically, have brown or brown hazel eyes, and we were typical. But now Rajat’s eyes were a clear, unflecked green, luminous as torchlight, with not a fleck of brown in them at all. It made his face stand out, eyes so eerily green, but somehow this seemed entirely natural. I think these thoughts upon later reflection but at the time I could not decide if there was anything different about his eyes. It crossed swiftly through my mind, like a lightning bolt, that I recognised the face and the look but not the colour of the eyes. But the clear mutual recognition convinced me at the time that I must be mistaken: his eyes obviously were, and always had been, green. I obviously couldn’t remember him well enough.
A huge wave of emotion pulled me down like a heavy wave, choking me. All these years. What he had suffered. And I couldn’t help so I ran away! Remorse, concern, guilt, affection for my brother, roiled confusedly through my mind. He looked steadily at me, arms gentle by his sides, saying nothing. He seemed to look at me almost with pity, certainly with affection, and a definite undertone of sadness. He said nothing but just looked.
I went up to him and put my arms around him. He was so tall my head only came up to his diaphragm. I pushed my head into the bottom of his chest and said, in a strangled voice, “Raji, I am really sorry I left India. I just had to go but I know I failed you somehow.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. His voice was gentle and calm.
“You haven’t got anything to be ashamed about. It’s just the way it had to be. We are seeds blowing in the air. The air takes us where it will. “
He didn’t have an Indian accent at all: he sounded just like me. A British accent, with a light hint of something different in it. It was as though he knew how I spoke and expressed myself and could do it effortlessly himself, and did so that I might be at ease.
I then noticed that he was encased from shoulders to waist in a light grey straitjacket. It looked like an armband used in blood pressure monitor kits and had faded black printed stuff over it, the logo of some company that made it. Odd I hadn’t noticed this before.
“I’ve got to get this thing off you,” I said. “What’s this you’re wearing? Why are you still in this?” I started tugging and pulling at the jacket. His arms were completely restrained by this jacket from shoulder to wrist, clamped to his sides. Had his arms not been free moments ago? I couldn’t remember. But now they were trapped in this thing. He was a prisoner. I struggled and he swayed with my exertions.
“Don’t try to remove it,” he said sadly. “I have to wear it. It is a requirement.”
I heard a telephone ringing in the distance, like an old Bell telephone, like the sort we used to have when we lived in our parent’s house in Delhi in the nineteen seventies.
“My time’s up,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Wait!” I said. “How will we stay in touch? Do you have a mobile phone?” He shook his head.
“What about email?” I shouted. He nodded. I grabbed my phone from my trouser pocket and swiped the screen open to log the email….
But he was gone. Then I saw someone pulling him away, down into the back of the queue. I tried to go after him but the press and throng of people was impossible. Finally, I wrestled my way out to the front door…but he was gone.
I woke up. The dream was as clear and bright as it was when I was actually still in the dream. I can see the lights and his face and tall figure. And the solemn, calm face, so different from the anguished, twisted one I remembered from the old days. And the sad, clear green eyes, luminous, unflecked with any trace of brown. Not the brown eyes, like mine I knew he had when I last saw him.
Rajat committed suicide in April of 1985.
"The lesson to be learned from this type of dream experience, said Jung, is to have no preconceived opinions about “the statements made by dreams.” Jung conceded that there is really no way to prove life after death. But such events as predeath visions, near-death experiences, and apparitions are hints that something survives death."
Source: Melvyn Morse M.D. and Paul Perry,'Closer to the Light.' 2011. Kindle Books.
Morse and Perry,discussing the near death experiences of children, cite afamous case from Carl Jung's classic study 'Memories, Dreams and Reflections' in which avision he had after the death of a friend was corroborated by evidence of which he had no prior knowledge. This enabled Jung to dismiss the fantasy hypothesis and lean towards the reality hypothesis of premonitional dreams. Jung also makes the point that 'proof' in terms of experimental science is impossible when dealing such phenomenabut in fact corroborative evidence widens our understanding and acceptance of a wider frame of reference for evidence than scientific. Unfortunately because of the huge success of science with material phenomena, it has become an intellectual fetish in our culture and narrowed our framework of reference in the search for Truth by identifying Science with Truth. We can see from anomalous phenomena such as corroborated premonitions that Science is part of Truth but not the whole of it. Whatever is, is part of Truth and of this Science can discover only a part because of its effective but self limiting methodology. Even Stephen Hawking, before he died,said as much though he remained a materialist to the end.
