A Dream Journey to Sialkot

During a visit to a city, I came across a street that felt eerily familiar—almost identical to one I had seen countless times in my dreams. On one side stood a row of houses, while on the other, a narrow river meandered through dense clusters of trees. At the heart of the city lay a magnificent, well-known lake, dotted with vibrant, colorful houseboats floating gracefully in the water.

As I ventured beyond the lake into the outskirts, I stumbled upon an old, abandoned bus station. It looked remarkably like the one in my dream, where I had once imagined myself lying on a cot. In my dream, the place was bustling with activity, but in reality, it stood desolate and empty. The shuttered shops I had seen in my dream were indeed there, but with their doors firmly closed.

In my dreams, I had always assumed this place was a city in Pakistan—perhaps Sialkot. Even within the dream, the name “Sialkot” would fleetingly cross my mind. The actual city I visited and the imagined one in my dreams were separated by a mere 200 kilometers. But how naïve it is to say “mere 200 kilometers”! A border lies between them—a border that carries its own weight of history and conflict.

How could I so easily reduce the gap between dreams and reality to a simple 200 kilometers? The thought that I had crossed the border in my dream was a mistake. I had never left; I had always remained within the boundaries of my own imagination.

I had paid little attention to the people in my dream. There were no signboards or bus markings to confirm the place. Had they appeared, they might have offered valuable clues. But dreams are built from what we already know, from what we tell ourselves. Even if signboards had been written in an unfamiliar script, my subconscious would have translated them into a language I understood. If they were in Persian, my mind—fluent only in Tamil—would have effortlessly read them as Tamil. Dreams speak the language of the subconscious.

I later learned that the real bus station had been out of service for years. Buses had once traveled to Sialkot, but that was only until the late 1950s. With this newfound knowledge, if I were to dream of that bus station again, I might finally board a bus to Sialkot.

Perhaps, in my dreams, I will once again find myself wandering through those familiar streets. Once the mind embraces an image, transporting it across 200 kilometers—even across borders—becomes effortless. And who knows? “In reality,” I might just arrive at Sialkot, standing exactly where my dreams have taken me so many times before.

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Originally written in Tamil a few years ago under the title சியால்கோட்டுக்கு கனவில் பயணமாதல் (A Dream Journey to Sialkot), this piece has now been translated into English—courtesy of ChatGPT.