Yesterday I had another interesting dream worth noting. It took place in India at a temple, but one portion involved a local prison, interestingly enough.
In my dream, an old high school friend was traveling with me on a tour. He had a room in the temple's guesthouse, and worked on recording/editing audio. It appears I was performing again, and I was traveling to my favorite places on the pretext of touring. I was in Mayapur again, and the rice paddy was growing high. I couldn't believe it; I was elated and leapt with joy as I walked the muddy roads. There was torrential rain, and roads were washed away. I didn't care that my sari was soaked. I didn't care that I had to hike up my sari and struggle down the muddy, slippery road. I was content. As I struggled toward the temple compound, I sang and skipped along the paths. I saw flood waters near the end of the road, and the surplus spilled into a small dirgha. The river seemed to change its path, and I felt reassured in seeing it. The earth smelled beautifully fragrant, alive with all manner of plants and aquatics.
I finally arrived back at the temple guesthouse, where I met my friend. He was happy to see I made it safely to Mayapur. He didn't know I'd been there several days already. He was working diligently while I roamed the flooded countryside, and I didn't care to tell him. It was best he found out, it was time I focused on my work. I headed to my room, showered, and changed into a fresh garment. I had an assortment of beautiful gowns, saris, and frocks on my room. I wondered why anyone with such pretty dresses at home would ever choose to run in the muck outside. I felt quiet and alone in my room as the dresses didn't console me, and I suddenly felt the urge to wander the town.
Restless, I left the temple compound and headed toward the bazaar. There I saw trains, busses, and rickshaws headed in every direction; I walked further and spotted a jail. The jail was a chatur shala building, like a square. The interior courtyard was sealed with metal mesh to keep the prisoners from escaping. Some cried out to me, "Devi, please have mercy. Kripa koren! Bless us, please, that we may leave this place."
I couldn't understand why they were calling out. I simply felt sad, and wondered what good prayers or blessing would be. Despondent, I turned back and sang a song. The prisoners cried, "Beautiful! Sing more for us, it brings us joy, ma'am. Please don't walk away from us." I turned and proposed to sing more songs if it pleased them, but all devotional songs of Śrī Hari. They wept with joy, and thanked me.
I headed back, I told them I would return with instruments and more vaishnavas.
My friend asked me as I wandered in for the second time, glassy-eyed and covered in mud, "Where do you keeping disappearing to?"
Mayapur.
