I had a dream, which is not unusual given the time that we get to sleep during the traffic jam, which is the hallmark of the ongoing hartal imposed by the opposition out of parliament. We did not think this was possible, not my dream, the jam in a hartal.

As I sashayed in my trance the prime minister appeared under a halo, and waved aside all the other aspirants one by one; there was one from each mahalla, and nominated me for the throne of Dhaka city.

This did not dissuade the other aspirants in the least, and they surrounded us with billboards that had their portraits with what seemed like sharpened Dracula-teeth, and blood streaming down their lips. Obviously, I had no love lost on them. Imagine their audacity of defying our leader. 

I could swear I saw lipstick on the billboards, not of the glamorous ad that the drab political hopefuls had covered. It was the artwork of the photo-shop-wala, who produced pink candidates. The piracy on high street saw mobile operators and merchandising corporations vanish behind large-hearted promises. 

As I slipped further into the abyss, there appeared from behind the mist the towering figure of a military-dictator, pseudo-constitutionalist, and debonair-president, whose reverberant voice declared that democracy had expired in 1991. Ouch! He blessed me as his personal choice because I saw him first, and every one on his party's national committee cheered me as their mayoral candidate. This was a sweet nightmare if that definition was possible.

I now found myself on the floor hugging my grandmother's kol-balish. The leader of the real opposition appeared angry in my delusion. She was opposed to my candidacy because that is her sworn duty, but she hardly gets to do that, and here she was avenging her real-life incompetence in another man's musings.

She asked me in a flat monotonous dialect, "Why do you want to be Mayor?"

My reply was, "If I did not, my dear Leader of the Opposition, then your husband may put up someone else."

 "That does not mean you will degrade yourself by lying on the floor. As Mayor you will get many opportunities to lie," she muttered under her breath. 

I was back on the bed pronto, and now dreaming hard. In my restlessness, I promised the city people clean water even for car washing and rose gardening. I switched from right to left and this time I pledged the citizens a jam-free capital within two weeks of being elected. I sat up in a shock. Did I just say that? I was now lying on my stomach. Dishonest politicians lie in any imaginable position. I vowed there would be no power cuts, and I was not talking about the opposition.

 "Did someone mention my name?" Madam appeared from nowhere. Seeing me all alone she was assured that hartal was in force. Her smile was visible despite her silhouette. She too assured me of her undivided support, stating eerily, echo after echo, as I tried to break away from my deep hallucination, that in the forthcoming city elections she would go with the national consensus. Huh! Now I was sure I was dreaming.

I doubled my philanthropic wish list. I guaranteed every person a house, every non-matriculate a job, a second job to those who have one, every rickshaw driver a license, every vendor a footpath, every student a golden star, every garbage bag the assurance of being picked up within the first hour. We would have a dream city. You bet!

A michil appeared with people holding handwritten placards (the announcement was so sudden, you know) and hailing the all-party accord, and led by a smiling horse pulling a cart. The cacophony was tearing apart my eardrums. Everybody was very happy that I was the choice of the people of my area. The people they looked from rooftops and from behind curtained windows, even from below me, already.

My zealous workers had smeared with alkatra freshly painted boundary walls belonging to the elakabashi. Without their knowledge, but in their name, they wrote that my character was as holy as a flower. They have obviously not met Golapi of the neighbouring mahalla, or Fulbanu further down the street. But, my purpose was being served. Selfish, you say. Have you seen any other kind?

There was a soft knock on the left wall of my dream. Come in, I stuttered. The local police commissioner was almost apologetic as he explained that his force would not be able to deliver at my beck and call. Irritated, I waved him away, confident that I will manage without him. They all do.

I was now hearing taps from various sides of a transparent geodesic dome in which I was a floating citizen, helpless. We all are in this city of broken footpaths on which ply motorcycles, unless someone has built on it. "Come in," said I. The Wasa boss was delivered before me via an under-construction pipeline. Dripping with what this city of 15 million produces, all he could manage were slurping sounds, which I took to mean his inability to serve this mayor hopeful. This was getting scary.

No sooner had I dried up the place with a mop the size of Rajuk Bhaban, its chairman arrived with the full Nagar Unnayan Committee. They were dream hopping and only stopped by to say "Hi!", and that they have no manpower, no resources and no time to come to the aid of the city father. That will be the case with most children these days. They can manage only the time for their parents' funeral; otherwise what will people say. Yup! I had drifted away from one phantasm to another.

When I returned to my original reverie, I caught the PDB chairperson just leaving; they come and go as fast as the electricity they manage. So were we getting uninterrupted power supply for all my tax-paying city folks? I promised. He lowered his head. Seeing my ashen face, he uttered, "For VVIP programme, of course, sir!" My face lit up despite the blackout that commenced just then, because I took the letter 'I' to mean innocent.

How ghastly! The mayor will have no support from the law-enforcers, meaning there will be no let-up in the worst traffic system in the world. Crime would be unabated. Water supply and sewerage management will continue to be inadequate. Greedy people (and there are so many of us) will build at will anywhere, and up to any height. Electricity will maintain its erratic and eccentric culture, EEE. What about gas? All I heard was a fisss...fisss. If this were my sworn enemy vying for the post of mayor, I would be his (or her) cheerleader. But, hey, this was about me, my dream, my false promises... Suddenly, I was awake, sweating as in a sewer, the EEE fan was not moving, the garbage was waiting to be collected, the gas burner was running low, brownish particles were floating in tap water, every building was the prize outcome of violation... 

I wonder what amount of courage drives the tiger in the real mayoral and councillor candidates to spell out their vision, dream if you will.

The writer is a practising Architect at BashaBari Ltd., a Baden-Powell Fellow Scout Leader and an MPHF Rotarian. <chintitoforever@gmail.com>