Dreams Defered

No political views being made here. Don’t expect to see sense at the end of this. This is a disclaimer.

I first came across a poem called What happens to a dream deferred several years ago. When i was still in school when my dad gave me an Encarta. Thrilled at the prospect of my first CD Encyclopaedia, I clicked on something at random and the room was suddenly filled with the chocolate voice of Hughes reciting his own work. More than the timbre of his voice, I remember the pain in just the recitation, a repetition of something that he had probably read several hundred times.

That set off a train of thought which still continues... What does happen to a dream deferred? How does one face reality or normal life after that? Knowing that you are capable of and deserve so much more? Knowing that life will be just a little worse.

I came across an essay by Jack Lessenbarry where he narrates the hypothetical scene recreation if he were to meet Martin Luther.
He states and I quote, "....I would also have to tell him that we’ve pretty much failed at becoming the America he dreamed about. I’d have to tell him that in the America of 2005, integration mostly just means the time from the day the first black family moves in to the time the last white family moves out. I would have to tell Martin Luther King that many black Americans in 2005 have lives of despair without hope. That too many of them live in a twilight world that the upper classes -- black as well as white -- try to ignore. And I would tell him that while children are still made to memorize parts of that great speech, too many adults have forgotten the line about white people. “Their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. “We cannot walk alone.” "

That’s one dream deferred. A rather famous one at that.

But to travel back to our mundane existence, where one is forced to face failure and compromise everyday, how does one face a deferring dream? Having to postpone one's deepest desire leads to destruction. The dream forced to sit idle hardens into an unusable substance of thoughts that have separated themselves from the goals and formed idle destructive thoughts that are crusted over with despair, doubt, anger, and hatred. Violence, guns, the works...


Much later in my academic life, when I was forced to study this as a part of my curriculum, is when the meaning of this poem truly sunk in and suddenly a whole lot of pieces fell into place. That and a piece in the paper today that is what I assume prompted this post.

A piece in the paper narrated the stoning of an old man in a train going to Belapur, that he may incur permanent blindness, the reference to the serious problem that it was a couple of years ago, the reasons why there is this much rage on the streets of Bombay, interviews with a psychologist and some political people, , how Bombay the once safe city is now rearing its ugly head, the usual gamut...

Lets focus on Bombay for a while, shall we? Bombay, the land of the washed out dream. Every day, people spend thousands of rupees and patronize Bollywood, which methodically churns out impracticable movies where there are Swiss locales and dancing women, opulent lifestyles and the light at the of a really short tunnel. The masses lap it up. It’s the closest that they'll ever get to such a lifestyle. Their own Technicolor escapist dream.

Think about it. In many ways, the masses we scorn and shrug off are equal if not better than the rest of us. I'm not trying to make any political statements here. But if a street urchin was given all the basic middle class home takes for granted, say a home, 3 square meals a day, a comfortable life, a home to come back to, an academic qualification, what are the chances he wouldn’t live under the poverty line a decade from now? True, the more qualified get the job, but who takes care of the qualifications? Who makes sure there is money enough to go to school and make something of yourself? Who pays the engineering fees or the architectural fees or the MBBS fees? And we’re talking about degrees in Indian, mind you. Or worse, even if you have a degree, who is to say that you will get a job given the rat race? And with reservation these days, who's to promise higher education is even an option that can be considered?

Now lets look at things from their eyes. They see rich kids in shiny cars, they see an education that is taken for granted, they see question papers being bought and answered, they see MBA's from the US, they see skimpy clothes and kitsch frothy careers like acting or designing or whatever that involve little labour and much returns. They see social evils being perpetrated and not a soul to show them up. They see Lady Fortuna place their hands on those privileged few and turn her back on the others. They also see that the offspring of the privileged also inherit that hand of fortune. They see it every single day of their lives. They also painfully see that they may never have a lifestyle like that. Ever. They see their personal dreams being bled out. A little every day. For the rest of their lives.

They see it when they clean the filth of the street.

They see it when they clean the sanitation pipes.

They see it when they are washing the behinds of dogs probably better treated than they are.

They see it when they scrub the sick off backseats where a night of excesses has decided to present itself.

They see it when six months salary is blown up on a birthday party in a fancy nightclub.

They see it in their eyes, the scorn, the smirk and utter disrespect because they are children of a lesser god.

The spewing rage, the mounting violence, the escalating suicide rate.. Do you blame them?

I now leave you with the immortal words of Poet Laureate Hughes. In his poem, Hughes places particular emphasis on Harlem, a black area in New York that became a destination of many hopeful blacks in the first half of the 1900s. Now, in a different century and on a different continent, I think the reference still fits.


What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore-- And then run? Does it stink like?

rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over-- like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?