I was in that dream again; such a dream that shook my foundations, flooded my mind with deep and painful echoes of a life I had not lived. Oh how I fought to wake and bring this absurdity to an end, and yet it was so real. I could taste the dirt in my mouth, smell the blood and smoke in my nostrils and see the dead and dying around me. This was not a war of guns and cannon. No. It was a war of hard-fought struggles, hand to hand fighting with long knifes, my haladie, a double-bladed knife I was wielding.
Me? With a weapon? And how did I know its name; how it felt in my hand? And what about my jambiya knife? That symbol of wealth with its black rhinoceros horn handle and silver and gold entwined into its blade. It was worth a fortune.
Someone was next to me, bloodied through a hard-won fight. He picked me up and slung me over his shoulder as if I was a small antelope killed in some hunting shikar. My shoulder oozed blood and lancing pain shot through my body and into my head. I tried to move my arm, but the pain was too great and I fell into unconsciousness.
At dusk I awoke, climbing out my nightmare like a monkey surging up a tree. I lay in a bed, the silk sheets clammy against my skin, my skull full to brimming as if I had been possessed by an incubus of old. I blinked, trying to drive that horror from my eyes. I sat and switched on the light; my room was still there, by bedside chair, my clothes thrown over it, my fan rhythmically drumming above my head, all as it should be.
I sighed; it was all a nightmare. I checked my shoulder to see if I was wounded. No. I was whole as the good Lord had made me. I puzzled as I lay, damp between the sheets. How had I known those weapons? I thought I had no knowledge of Indian fighting panoply yet it seems I did. The array of arms I carried; my haladie, the double-bladed knife, and my jambiya belittled that assumption and brought it into plain sight. I was a warrior, an Indian Pasaltha from the Mizo people. I knew I had close ties to Myanmar, indeed, my wife came from there.
Wife? I have a wife?
I lay back on my bed, forcing myself to relax and control my ragged breathing. Slowly I descended into sleep, rough, but deep. I calmed myself, shaded from the fear that had overcome me. I knew I had been brave; a tiger had driven me, low I crouched, resting lightly on the balls of my feet, ready to spring into battle, to attack.
I awoke sometime later. My shoulder was less painful, the seed of the poppy had been administered and a warm euphoria had spread over me. A woman was tending my wounds. She bathed my shoulder with a warm milky water that smelt of herbs. Then she washed my stomach. I did not remember that wound such was the frenzied battle, I had a slit across my midriff, the depth of the width of my finger. She took a needle and silken thread and sowed me up, fingers sure and swift with the skill of a practiced seamstress.
More poppy seed was administered, and despite the feeling of sicklyness I slipped back into a dreamful sleep as soft feathers cradled my head and the warm glow of opium filled my veins.
I dreamt. I dreamt of a comfortable bed, of my car, of electric stoves and electric lights and of a thing called a mobile that held all the news you could ever wish for. That was in a land I was forgetting, somewhere far, far away that sat in my mind like an echo of a past not lived, of a dream only dreamt and soon forgotten.
I awoke slowly. My shoulder felt easier, less stiff and I found I could move it, not much but some. I became aware of my stomach and the wound that spanned it. I felt it was knitting together.
She was here again, her with the fresh smell of jasmine overlaid with the aroma of herbs. Her black hair was long and tied back, showing her pretty face with warm eyes that heated my heart.
‘You are home my love.’ She said, kissing me.
‘Yes,’ I muttered, ‘home.’ And I smiled.
_____
‘I think he’s dead.’ Said one neighbour to another. ‘He must had died in his sleep. I’ve rang the doctor.’
‘Good. Not a bad way to go. He looks happy, doesn’t he?’
© Tropical Writers Inc 2026