THE PASSION OF A DREAM
The passion of a dream can never be underestimated nor the power that itgenerates. I have not come across a stronger example of this than throughthe eyes of a long lost friend I knew in India. During my medical education days, somewhere in third year, I had the fortunate luck of becoming friends with Anil.
Anil was a normal , average looking individual who was 2 yearsmy senior. He was finishing medical school in six months. What no oneknew or saw was that for Anil the word Dream was spelled as AMERICA.
His life, his goal, his aim, was to reach there. He could not give you adequatereasons and whys for that dream , but you needed none when you saw theferociousness of his focus. I have seen people succeed by perseverance, Ihave seen people succeed by toil, but in Anil I saw something extra- it wasan intensity that burned his soul. For him the focus of living was a land hehad never seen. He had to be there.
I tried to write his story but could not do justice to his forceful passionand so I limit myself to this one example of how much we must desire so thatwe may succeed. It will also go to show that perhaps being a little mad andobsessive in pursuit of a dream may be an important ingredient in anyrecipe of success.
*************************************************************************************One stormy night, when the rain poured like rivers and the skies thunderedlike the angry oceans, I sat snug in my chair in my hostel room trying tocomprehend why hypertension and smoking are linked. The pages of "Text bookof Medicine" by Davidson lay open upon my table. The dim table top lamp wasthe only light I needed at that time in an otherwise dark room.
I caught the whine of Anil's bike over the sound of thunder, and I heard him skid andhalt right in front of my ground floor room. When I darted out to get him inI could not believe what I saw. Anil was drenched in water, his hairplastered to his scalp, he wore nothing on him but a tennis short that clungto his wetness like a swimming trunk. Raindrops glistened on his naked body,that seemed to be heaving with gasps of effort.
Then I saw his face.....It had the look of a man who seemed to have done something incredible. His eyesblazed red , and his nostrils flared with each breath he took." Nirvi", hesaid " Come with me , this very moment, I have something to show you".
I looked at the rain, I looked at the darkness of the night, I looked atthe dry nightgown I wore. "Anil", I said "It's raining and.....". I couldnot say any more. I knew it was that moment in life when you had to die fora friend if that was the need. I also knew that procrastination would bestupidity.
Some passions were worth being stupid. I didn't know what Anil wasup to or what was to happen, but I took a step forward into the rain. I didnot lock my room, I did not change my clothes, I just stepped out into therain and sat behind him on his bike then we roared away into the night.
Twelve to fifteen minutes later we were in front of Anil's house. He led mein through the back door and we tiptoed through the hall lest we disturb hissleeping parents in the room close by. We reached his room and he closed thedoor behind us. We stood there in the dark, inside his room. He whisperedin my ear, "Behold my passion" and switched on the lights.
I blinked twice before I could comprehend his work. One wall of his room hada wall to wall plastered map of the United States of America, but that hadbeen there before. Today, it was his bed.
From the four corners of his bed stood four poles and all the poles had a large flag of the United States ofAmerica carefully pinned along the length of the sides in unfurled state.Four flags of USA, surrounding in entirety a small bed. Four Flags, allpainted fresh oil colors by hand, four handcrafted maps. Every star andevery stripe, every edge and every margin carefully sewn.
The room dazzled in the riot of colors. The smell of fresh paint filled the room. I looked at Aniland saw his hands, hands smudged with rain and paint hues of red,white and blue. He was grinning ear to ear. His eyes were on fire. I had nowords to say. He said , "I am going to sleep surrounded by my dream". Ijust hugged him and said, "Yes , you will".
Anil made it to a Medical school residency in United States of America sixmonths later. He left India never to return. I could not see him off at theairport but that picture of him sleeping on the bed surrounded by AmericanFlags was etched in my mind forever.
Was it an Obsession? Was it Paranoia? Or was it just the Passion of a Dream?I never knew. I never cared. All I knew was that it worked for him.The Passion of a Dream.
Copyright © 1999 Dr. Nirvikar Dahiya --- India