The Night I Dreamt of Allu Arjun, Astronauts, and a Dust Storm of Regret
Not all dreams are random. Some feel like encrypted
messages from your own soul. This one? Felt like a movie, a breakdown, and a
revelation — all rolled into one.
Last night, somewhere between my tangled thoughts and the
soft hum of the ceiling fan, I drifted into a dream that felt like a
Christopher Nolan movie written by a homesick poet.
I was back in college. That version of me, carefree and
slightly curious, spotted someone in the crowd—a clean-shaven guy, almost too
ordinary. But my heart whispered, “That’s him.” Allu Arjun. Not the
“Pushpa” swagger-loaded version, but a guy who looked like he just walked out
of a bank queue.
I asked for a selfie—he smiled, said yes. But fate, or maybe
my dusty subconscious camera, kept giving me blurry shots. On the third try, click—perfection.
Just enough clarity to make it a WhatsApp status flex.
Then we were four. Two mystery girls whose faces I can’t
recall, walking with us around the campus. Suddenly, a jet ripped through the
sky like a scream. We looked up—first awe, then confusion. The jet didn’t just
fly past. It U-turned in the sky like it had a mission.
And then... chaos. Two more aircrafts—no, spaceships maybe—hovered. And from the clouds, a gigantic astronaut fell. Not floated. Fell. Like a rocket-sized human being crashing into an under-construction building. The earth trembled, the air cracked, and for a second, the dream itself seemed to glitch.
I shouted, “Let’s go home.” My old home. My safe place. We
ran, ducking under fear and rubble, while another astronaut slammed into
another building like the universe had rage issues.
We made it home. I introduced Allu Arjun to my family. No
one recognized him. Not even my brother, who then decided to pull up an old
file—my first personal loan, ten years old. The seed of every EMI, every
pressure, every “not now” I’ve uttered since. I shut him down. “Don’t read my
past out loud,” I wanted to say. But dreams don’t let you speak clearly.
Then—cut to another scene. A party. A couple kissing in the
corner. My friend recording it like it was a short film. But just when the mood
turned cheesy-romantic, a cloud of dust stormed in like karma on steroids.
Choking, rushing in, blurring every happy thing in sight.
I woke up coughing—not physically, but emotionally.
Interpretation or Chaos?
Maybe this dream is my brain's way of filing away everything
it doesn’t know how to deal with:
- Allu
Arjun = success disguised as simplicity. The fame I admire, but also want
to touch and hold—just long enough for a selfie.
- The
falling astronauts = my ambitions, once high and mighty, now crashing
because I’ve held onto dreams I haven’t yet launched.
- That
loan document = regret, the root of adulting stress, the thing I don’t
want to look at anymore.
- That
couple kissing = the life I feel distanced from while figuring mine out.
- The
dust = overwhelm. The “too much” I try to carry daily.
This wasn’t just a dream. It was a cinematic breakdown of my
subconscious, shot in IMAX and edited by anxiety.
Would I watch this movie again?
Hell yeah. But next time, I’d like the selfie to be clearer from the first try. And maybe—just maybe—I’d be the astronaut who lands softly, not the one who crashes..
– Manish Pawar
A man with a blurry selfie, a falling astronaut, and a sky full of
questions.
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