Dream 1 : Writer's Block
Murthy had always been a moderate man. He preferred to be left to himself to do as he pleased, and held the simple belief that everyone that did not hurt anyone else should be accorded the same laissez faire. His severe critiques of powerful people would mostly concern issues where this sacrosanct freedom was violated, or where people were allowed to perpetuate injustice sans oversight. He would, however, never support an armed rebellion against the status quo -- whenever the media made vague allusions that his work had inspired the Izuh-ra, it left Murthy deeply disturbed. His entire system of principles would bristle in indignation, and he would mope and sigh about the lack of basic reasoning that the TV hosts and Izuh-ra seemed to have in common. But these allusions would now accompany every news story about Izuh-ra's activities, and Murthy was just about getting used to it.
This time, however, the reporters had absolutely outdone themselves. Fuelled by a fresh press release from the police, the media's imagination had gone wild, making Murthy irritable company for his wife at dinner and a victim of writer's block and insomnia thereafter. Finally, getting back into his outdoor shirt and trousers, Murthy stepped out of his family home for a stroll in the midnight breeze. He let his mental faculties slosh over the day's problems, and as his irritations slowly cleared, he inevitably began to analyse why, after all, the news outlets behaved as insensibly as they did. Quickly spiralling into a deep analysis of the underlying economic and political factors, Murthy was late to notice that his surroundings had grown noisier than respectable residential areas usually are at night. He could hear the hum of trucks on the highway and the slight murmur of tradespeople who had only just finished their days. Around him was the locality that folks of his stature only visited at daytime for shopping and repairs, and deserted cautiously at the close of godly hours. The street lights here were still yellow gas lamps, the last sleepy tea stall still burned an incandescent bulb, and cathode ray televisions still were the window to the world beyond.
Murthy's realisation of how far he had wandered finally stopped him at the mouth of a busy market street, now deserted save one man pacing a makeshift stage. Presumably, this man was ruminating over the next day's important (if Murthy's peering eyes read the signs right from that distance) trade union meet. Clearly this man was a union leader, and given how he stared into the street, he had a lot to think about. Murthy rationalised that walking into the street would disturb this stranger's thoughts, but he did not quite convince himself that the very bias towards the poor that he so decried was not stopping him venturing deeper into this neighbourhood at night. He had spent countless evenings over tea and snacks arguing against friends who saw the inhabitants of this area as natural criminals, and finally, as if to prove the entirety of his own socio-economic class wrong, Murthy walked with the most sincerely forced nonchalance into the dimly lit market street, and almost immediately felt guilty of something akin to slum tourism. It was as if he had only walked in there to make himself feel better about his fortunes in constrast to these people's misshapen dwellings and workplaces. Nonetheless, thought Murthy, the hum of the highway could be gotten used to, and the slightly shabby street felt cosy to walk along that night.
Settling thus into his decision of entering the street, he bowed his head and crossed his hands behind himself, into a posture ideal for analysing media mentalities -- and so he walked, an author once again sure of his intellect, and a man once again friends with his principles. His thoughts now proceeded to convince him that the associations the media had formed between him and Izuh, the eponymous leader of Izuh-ra, were absolutely bizarre. Yes, they were born in the same city, a hotbed of the country's every ideological revolution; yes, the police suspected that Izuh was back to that very city, which Murthy had never stopped living in; and yes, sympathisers and possibly members of Izuh-ra thrived in the city, especially among its disgruntled lower middle class; but lumping Murthy with these radical people was absolutely atrocious. Murthy had completed college respectably, made a name for himself, and always communicated his ideas, howsoever disruptive, in a collected and academic manner. Moreover, if Izuh had read Murthy's book as was rumoured, it was not Murthy's fault that he chose the wrong paths for realising the resulting inspiration. In fact, Murthy reasoned, how differently the thoughts in that book had influenced the two men would in fact be the most glaring evidence of how fundamentally in contrast they were -- and so Murthy listed out more obvious differences between himself and Izuh, this man he had never met but for the media's picture of him.
Even if Izuh had never read his book, there were other ways to most obviously exhibit that they were entirely unlike one another. Izuh didn't drink on principle, and Murthy was practically incomplete without whiskey. Murthy was loyal to his wife and children, in contrast to the horde of mistresses that Izuh maintained in every hideout. Moreover, thought Murthy with the chuckle of a man bringing levity to the deepest philosophies, Murthy would never be as well-liked among women as Izuh probably was. Sensible girls would marry well-settled stoutish men like Murthy; despite ideological differences, though, they would secretly swoon over Izuh. Murthy sure had good-naturedly sat through his wife and her friends guiltily detailing Izuh's eyes, Izuh's stubble, Izuh's chiselled jawline, Izuh's hair that would definitely be so very soft to the touch. And so the pleasant mental image of Izuh, for a moment untouched by his knowledge of the man's deeds, rose before Murthy's eyes. Immediately stopping to ponder over the disconnect between surface beauty and ideological attractiveness, Murthy lazily stopped in his way, and stretching himself slightly, turned to face the other side of the street. With the laziness and his ponderings still lingering, Murthy registered slowly that the makeshift stage was now just ahead of the spot across him, and the man on it was still there, his feet facing Murthy with his body partly turned away mid-pace. Murthy's gaze had been low, and now he began to casually follow the man's loose clothing upwards from his sandals. Instinctively, perhaps because of the utter emptiness of the street, Murthy also began to cross the road as he raised his gaze. The man was strongly built, and jolted Murthy with his long-held admiration for the working class. Presently, perhaps taking notice of footsteps approaching him, the man on the stage reversed the spin of his athletic torso, and turned to face Murthy who also, by now in the middle of the road, had finally raised his eye to the man's chiselled, stubbled face.
The eyes that looked at Murthy from within that face were beautiful, and glowed with strong surprise and soft admiration. They were very, very different from Murthy's own beady eyes, which perpetually squinted from academic stress, and were now staring ashenly at the familiar face in front of him.
Rajaraman "Red Man" Murthy. That's what this fellow must be thinking, Murthy reasoned. Then, painfully, Murthy added to himself the realisation that, if the man before him was smart, as he definitely must be, then he too knew the one word that now held Murthy's brain in a clammy grip.
Izuh!
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