The first signs of a storm is stillness...

She could feel him creeping behind her. She wanted to scream and shout, turn around, hit out, run away. She wanted to do something to save herself. But she was strangely rooted to her spot. The room was dark and curiously bare. The inky blackness, instead of closing in and constricting, strangely gave an illusion of space and vastness. One couldn't see much of the contents of the room except the mirror she sat in front of.But it was too dark for her to see her own reflection clearly, much less make out anything of the man behind. But as he inched closer, the mirror captured a hazy outline of the intruder. He seemed oddly familiar. Of course! He held out his hand and put it on her shoulders. She shuddered involuntarily. And bolted up straight in bed, cold sweat beads forming on her forehead even in mid-December.

She had seen a different version of this dream too often in the past. Only it was usually always a different place. Sometimes it was her room, sometimes the garden and sometimes the wide balcony with it's french doors. The club swimming pool had made an appearance as had the semi-broken steps by the dirty pond on the way to the bus stop. Reaching for the light switches, she looked around her colourful room. A collection of an odd set of furniture thrown together with posters, rugs, wall hangings and painting - it was indeed a cheerful place to be in. But the mirror needed to go, she decided firmly. Or at any rate covered when not in use, she conceded, vanity taking over.

A concrete yet irreverent next step chartered out in her mind, 26 year old Mrin went back to sleep, pulling her duvet over her head. She decided this next dream was going to be about her and the Academy Awards red carpet. And the perfect dress she had planned for it. In case she was ever invited to it. Even if it was to only be in her dreams.

His name was Sam

When you first make your way past the towering bouncers guarding the entrance to the Labyrinth Nightclub, you can't help but wonder who came up with the name of the place. He seemed to have hit the nail on the head. The stark red stretches flanking the dimly lit serpentine staircase on either side has an almost hypnotic effect on you. With every forward step, you feel uneasy, but the curiosity of what lies ahead prevents you from turning back. It sucks you in. The thumping in the distance has a seductive charm that numbs all your senses till your mind gets all fuzzy. You just keep walking. On and forward. And suddenly the crammed corridor opens up into a space teeming with people jumping up and down with hands held in the air. In some sort of frenzy. The thumping is so loud now that you can't hear yourself think. A million heartbeats. A million pulses. All beating in unison. A blur of myriad faces. A thousand tired souls all wanting to forget the stresses of the day and drown themselves in the noise, in the swarm of flailing limbs, in the web of unruly hair. And if you somehow still don't get lost in the haze of flickering lights and alcohol-laden breath, you'll notice a man sitting by himself at the bar. Alone. Far from the madding crowd.

The man was about thirty five. The crisp white shirt on his back, the whiff of expensive cologne as you walked past him and the glass of champagne in his hand told you that he was a man of considerable means. Probably one of those men who climb the corporate ladder so quickly that it makes your head spin. The kind of man that everyone wants a piece of and women can't have enough of. The kind of man  who makes you sick with envy. But his tired eyes told a different story. It told the story of a man who hadn't slept in days. A man who had a million friends but was yet alone. A man longing for some meaning. Some peace. Some love.

His name was Sam.