I jump off the roof. I suffer an abysmal fall. But I’m not hurt. I look at myself, surprised. I get up and start running. I want to reach somewhere. I run fast. I cross a railway track. I am in a train, on an upper berth, my body moving to the train’s rhythm. There is laughter and chatter. I see long forgotten friends; dead grandparents. They offer me potato chips. I am confused. The berths come down rolling to form desks, the coach keeps widening until it is a perfect square, like a classroom. I am in my school, taking a chemistry test. But I don’t remember the +I Effect. What do I do? How did I miss a thousand days of school? There is sunlight entering the classroom through the windows which open in the side gardens. I am in the garden. But it’s a different garden. I am with my mother and am barely half as tall as her. She is holding a small plant in a pit and I am putting mud around it, with feverish enthusiasm. I am so happy. Each time I fill my small fists, and empty them into the pit, it’s an accomplishment and I look at her and let out a chuckle. She smiles. I can smell the sandal soap on her. She looks beautiful with the sun on her cheeks. After I fill the pit completely, she presses the ground. She waters the new plant. She asks me to wash my hands and turns to go inside the house. I want to stop her, but I am unable to speak. I run and catch hold of the loose end of her cotton saree. But it doesn’t feel like cotton. It feels like my quilt. I wake up.