Writing in this newspaper last Sunday columnist Gamini Weerakoon spoke about a dream he had. It was not exactly Martin Luther Kingish. I mean it did not seem as though Weerakoon had one of those grand visions that King had as he set forth on his mission to win rights for the Afro-Americans.

Yet Gamini Weerakoon's serendipitous dream would have come as a bright ray of hope to the journalistic community just as Luther's dream of his people.

It certainly seems like dream time. For while our fellow columnist was seeing - in his dream of course - his journalistic colleagues travelling in expensive bullet-proof vehicles with gun-toting outriders like some petty potentate, I was having my own dreams.

Unlike Weerakoon, however, my dreams came in what seemed an unending sequence like those Sinhala teledramas on local screens that go on and on from here to eternity. If the producers and writers of those stupid melodramas had sufficient artistic licence as to length as well as content, they would most likely supplant eternity with something even more distant and long lasting.

Short of sheep

Anyway there I was tossing and turning in bed and counting sheep until I ran short of sheep and turned to goats. I suppose it was the very idea of counting goats that sparked off that dream sequence which to date manifests itself intermittently and often acquires nightmarish qualities.

Well it was alright when I dreamt of Mervyn Silva, that doctor of sorts high tailing it out of the Rupavahini premises, his sarong hitched several inches above his knees, chased by employees of the state-run television station who appeared to be gaining on the Minister who was labouring down what was once called Bullers Road.

In my dream the man who charged into Rupavahini like a bull in a china shop was seen running quite appropriately down Bullers Road. Last seen he was heading into the new British High Commission, shamelessly seeking refuge among our former colonial masters. Shamelessly, that is, for a direct descendent of King Dutugemunu, according to his story. That is according to Mervyn Silva's story not Dutugemunu's.

In my dream I saw Mervyn Silva plead with the British authorities to save him from what he called the mob. His faithful followers like Kudu Dodol  and  Kelaniye Kakka had already fallen to the forces of journalistic righteousness as they exited the television station looking more colourful - thanks to the artistry of Rupavahini employees - than when they came in.

Sorry figure

Poor Mervyn, the man with an Achilles heel in his head, cut a very sorry figure as he pleaded with Mahendra Ratnaweera, a British High Commission political officer who was severely beaten along with Namal Perera, a freelance journalist, by goons in a van with false registration plates.

Silva's demeanour was in marked contrast to the gung ho entrance he made to the Canadian High Commission not so long ago demanding a visa for his son Malaka who is a genuine chip of the old blockhead.

In my sleep I had burst into laughter at seeing the grovelling Mervyn, waking up the Pachoris household which found it difficult to settle down at four in the morning.

It took a couple of cups of coffee and generous shots from my bottle of brandy to coax some of the family back to bed. Such is the effect that Mervyn Silva has on people even when they are awakened from their peaceful sleep.

After that episode I thought that all is well and the Pachoris household would enjoy a good night's sleep the next day.

Out of luck

No such luck I am afraid.  Having retired to bed relatively early the next night after a stiff shot of cognac and a couple of aspirins, I looked forward to a sound sleep. As I slipped deeper into sleep I saw Mervyn Silva again.  The average member of the public would consider it a nightmare if he or she saw the Labour Minister when asleep. It is bad enough seeing him when awake. Imagine the traumatic experience of seeing him in one's sleep?

We journalists are made of sterner stuff though. That is why it takes three to four thugs with baseball bats and assorted weaponry to try to reduce them to pulp.  So sometime before the cocks crowed the coming of dawn, I had hooted loudly like a banshee and kept jumping on the bed waving my hands like Geronimo about to scalp some poor sergeant of the 7th Cavalry.

This time it was not just the Pachoris household that came running into the room to see what the din was all about. My neighbour Mr. Perera and his two sons, armed with the molegaha and mammoty handles which it seems they keep by their bedside at night, started banging on the front door thinking some mischief was afoot.

Actually nothing was afoot but my legs were being held by a couple of domestics from the Pachoris household as they tried valiantly to hold me from breaking the bed springs.

Finally when my laughter had subsided but I was still shaking with uncontrollable mirth, I was escorted to the dining table where we all sat down and the barging neighbours were also brought into the scene.

Dankotuwa Special

In the meantime one domestic, namely the cookie, had disappeared into the cavernous interior of the Pachoris walauwwe where she was brewing strong black coffee to calm the nerves of all and sundry.

My second cousin about six times removed (personally I would like to have removed him about six years ago when he first entered the Pachoris residence to spend a weekend and never went back) produced a bottle of Dankotuwa illicit brew which he claimed was as soothing to the nervous system as oriental balm to an arthritic arm.

After two cups of coffee liberally spiced with Dankotuwa Special I had to tell family and neighbours what caused the rumpus in dreamland.

I don't want to go into all the details lest they embarrass Minister Mervyn Silva (if such a thing is possible, naturally) but I think I owed an explanation.

In this second dream I saw Mervyn Silva on his knees surrounded by members of the journalistic fraternity. He, this direct descendent of Dutugemunu, with his hands folded in obeisance was pleading for forgiveness from the media for all the sins he has committed against them.

There in the middle of this large hall sat three journalists dressed in wig and gown listening with condescension to the pleas for mercy emanating from a foul mouth.

At the very thought of recalling my dream I burst out in gales of laughter which set the neighbourhood dogs barking and some alley cat screeching as though it had been scalded with hot water. It was at this stage that my neighbour Mr. Perera suggested to my mother that we should get a kattadiya to do a thovil to exorcise Mervyn Silva from my memory.