Morning light filtered through the dharmshala’s grilled windows, birdsong mixing with distant temple bells. I woke slowly, body aching deeply—muscles sore, thighs burning, back stiff. For a disoriented moment, the dream lingered vividly: the classroom, the water, her body, our shared ecstasy. My heart raced, a flush creeping up as fragments replayed. Then reality sharpened. I was in my hostel bedroom back in Pune—familiar posters on the wall, messy desk piled with engineering notes, the faint hum of traffic outside. No village wedding. No dharmshala. Just the aftermath of last night’s intense basketball match with the guys—Pawan, Himashu, and the team—running drills till midnight, bodies slamming on the court, bruises from a rough game.
I groaned, rolling over, every movement protesting. It had been one hell of a lucid dream—vivid, uncontrolled, born from years of buried thoughts, that old summer memory, the closeness of our friendship, and perhaps the stress of second-year exams mixing with unspoken curiosities. Pawan’s 33rd birthday party from the opening? A future projection my mind had woven in. The wedding? Manoj bhaiya’s real upcoming one, twisted into fantasy. And Mummy… beautiful as always in my thoughts, but safe in her world.
I smiled despite the ache, staring at the ceiling. Some dreams you keep to yourself forever. Life went on—classes, cricket, brotherhood intact. But deep down, a part of me wondered: what if, someday…