My broken-tooth dream

Yes, I lost it in some old mansion and I was looking for it on the steps, in the grass, asking the women who had assembled there, going all frantic in my search for the broken tooth. The ugly, brownish tooth fell out while I was scrambling up the stairs to see the qawalli. I wanted to get it fixed. I didn’t want to lose it, lose the hope. I was crippled, and yes, nervous too.
I had felt it loosen up when I was brushing that morning and I panicked when I felt it with my tongue. Yes, I could taste the blood too. No, the doctors could not fix it. I could pull it out myself and end the agony, the hopelessness and look for alternatives. I asked my mother and she said my father had artificial ones. Yes, I could get those. But then, what if all my other teeth fell out too. What would I do. Will there be more deaths, more regrets? Was I dying, was I suffering from some unspeakable disease and was it cancer. I had shrunk too. My skin too was shrivelled.
And then suddenly, the broken tooth fell out and hid somewhere. Only if could find it. The blood hardened in my mouth, it tasted sour and I could feel the raw flesh where the tooth once had been.
Yes, it was all in the dream where I woke up many times in the night, the twilight moments enhancing the taste of blood, the sweat mixed with fear and I lay half-awake trying to dismiss the dream and forcing myself to revisit good, happy times. But no, it won’t let me.
As I wait for the news of death in the family, I can still feel the raw flesh in my mouth. I sit, suspended in time and place, indecisive as always. I keep the phone in my pocket as I gulp down cups of strong tea. It makes me jittery, nervous and I feel guilty, ashamed. If I don’t meet her, don’t see her, how will I ever be at peace with myself. No, she can’t, shouldn’t die without me by her side, whispering how maybe I was wrong. It is the unfinished business of life that disturbs me.
The phone rang in the morning. It was my aunt, crying, sobbing. She was leaving for Patna to be with her. So was the broken-tooth dream a signal, a symbol, a flash of what is to come.
And i ransack my mind for clues, for reassurances. But none. Long ago, I had dreamt of my grandmother rising from her deathbed, my aunt unfolding the mattress for her, and she drinking water. She looked tired and I was just sitting, the battered cane chair squeaking. The silence was murderous. It always is. And then came the news of death the next morning.
And now this another dream. And I google the meaning of it. And yes, it is coming.
And I wait, nervous as hell. No, I won’t call.