By Chitra Divakaruni

Chitra Divakaruni is the international bestselling author of fourteen books of poetry and fiction, including her latest novel, Queen of Dreams. Chitra will be a keynote speaker at the International Association for the Study of Dreams conference in Berkeley June 24-28. She will read from Queen of Dreams, about an Indian dream interpreter living in Berkeley, and will talk about dream interpretation in the Indian culture.

The following excerpt from Queen of Dreams is by permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. ©2004 by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni.

There were two kinds of interpreting that my mother did, though there may have been others. My knowledge of this facet of her life is furtive, fragmented, gleaned through eavesdropping.

The first --- as she had reluctantly told me--- was when someone came to her with a dream, and she explained to her what it meant. (But why do I say her? I suspect that men came to my mother, too, though I imagine them to be more awkward about it.)

"A dream is a telegram from the hidden world," I heard her say once. "Only a fool or an illiterate person ignores it."

The second kind of interpretation was more complicated. I'll get to it later.

I learned early not to question my mother about her work. Though she talked freely with me about matters that were taboo in Indian families---boyfriends, bodily changes, bad things that happened at school---she was silent on the subject of dreams. If I brought it up, she would look distressed. Sometimes she'd leave the house. Once she took the car and didn't return for hours. I was beside myself with worry, certain she'd had an accident. I think it was soon after that that I stopped asking questions. Or maybe it was after she'd given up on teaching me.

Let me not misrepresent facts. My mother wasn't the one who wanted to teach me to interpret dreams. I was crazy for it myself.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be an interpreter. But when I turned twelve, I grew obsessed with the idea. I saw it as a noble vocation, at once mysterious and helpful to the world. To be an interpreter of the inner realm seemed so Indian. (In thinking this, of course, I deluded myself. Weren't the American papers filled with advertisements about psychics?) I hungered for all things Indian because my mother never spoke of the country she'd grown up in –just as she never spoke of her past. But if I could be a dream interpreter like her, surely I would understand her without the need for words.

Not all my motives were so pure. I daydreamed sometimes of how my talent would make the more popular girls in the school befriend me, how it would force Elroy Thomas, who played drums in the Band, to notice me at last. I imagined running my hands over his hair, its tight, springy curls.

When I asked my mother, she shook her head. "First, you can't give this knowledge to people who might want to use it for selfish gain." (Here she looked at me until I looked away.) "And second, you can't give this knowledge, period."

I wasn't convinced. "How did you learn, then?"

"I have to make dinner."

I caught the edge of her sari as she tried to escape to the kitchen. I told her I wasn't letting her go until she told me the whole story.

There is no story to tell. I had a gift. A distant aunt who was a dream teller recognized it when she came to visit."

"But how?"

"I don't remember very well. I think she made me sleep in the same room. Anyway when she left, she took me back to live with her."

I stared at her, trying to imagine how it must be to leave everything you love behind and go off with a stranger. "You left, just like that. Didn't your mother stop you? Didn't you miss her?

She stared down at the backs of her hands. Her unhappiness was a tangible thing. I could have held it in my palm, like an injured bird. I'd never noticed before that the ends of her nails were ragged, as though someone had been biting them. My mother, biting her nails? It shocked me so much, I said, "Never mind. Tell me what your aunt taught you? Did she give you lessons?"

I guess you could call them lessons." She spoke slowly, the words, sleepwalking through her mouth. "But they came later and only because I already had the gift."

"And I don't have it?" I tried to make my voice nonchalant, but it cracked a little.

She hesitated. "I don't know for sure. I haven't sensed it, that's all. Maybe I'm too close to you to see it."

I knew what she was saying, under the careful kindness. But I couldn't bear to give it up, yet.

"I want you to try, Mom." I said. "Really try, one more time. Let me sleep with you.

She drew in her breath to say not---I could see it in the set of her mouth. But then she agreed. Was it because she loved me? Was it some deep, chromosomal guilt, for not having passed the gift on to me?

The second kind of interpretation occurred when my mother dreamed. These dreams were not about herself, or us, or anyone she knew. All the people in these dreams were strangers, and usually they didn't believe in dreams. Or they believed---but in spite of themselves. Which was worse, because when you're forced to believe in something you wish you could dismiss, it makes you an angry person?

My mother's duty was to warn these angry people of what was about to happen....