The plate still resided upon Arnav's table. It was covered carefully by a cloche to prevent the infestation of it by flies.

But the cloche did not prevent the infestation of Arnav's mind with musings.

Arnav walked towards the accustomed rest room.

He put on the shower. It drabbled his body and soul. The water was cool and it hustled past his trunk. Along with it, passed down a stream of dirt. It had accumulated in parts of his cadaverous physique in the past days of carelessness. It showered down, with his burdened suffocation. Had he rid himself of his anguish?-maybe not!-but, was he now but freed from the rotten odour of his unsaid past, his profound dread!

After a long, satisfactory bath, Arnav with his dried frame landed upon the floor of the cabin number three hundred and one which had been his home for the past few weeks. He put on a couple of new clothes which he had retreated from the cupboard. Rummaged had he not! It had been neatly pressed and folded in the fancied location. It was the enchantment of a woman.

Arnav looked down upon the plate. It contained something more than the dishes. It was perhaps, the remnants of hope, of care of a person, of a woman. He contemplated them. Upon the knowledge of the conception, Arnav condemned himself.

The lonesome woman was nothing but a staff. She was ugly many said. Her dark complexion, and the contours of her face, the stoutness of her figure-they were convicted to be signifying of ugliness. But, why did Arnav seek within the iris of the woman, some unknown tragedy, some unknown tale of unrequited love deposited in her disposition? The vextitatious musing had haunted him the entire afternoon.

Arnav berated his factious nature. He mused a few syllables of rebuke. She is just another nurse! Maybe, she was melancholic like me, but how does it matter at all? It is none of my damned business to interfere within her conflicts. mused Arnav.

He now directed his concentration to the plate. The soup was the first one to be slurped down Arnav's parched throat. He had not taken his meals properly in the past weeks. The next one was the stew. The chicken was boiled and flavoured subtly-it carried the rustic taste of some coriander, turmeric and a few assertive spices. It was salted to perfection.

One after the other, were the others consumed; they were consummate to Arnav! For the first time in the many weeks, had he retreated his mother's taste within the stale monotony of the lunch of the rehab. Yes, it was indeed the exemplary spicing of his mom.

Arnav was engrossed in his meal just when there was a soft thud on his shoulder:
"Sameer!" Arnav exclaimed.

"Yes, Your Majesty! It is Sameer indeed!" replied Sameer with a grin of mischief.

"So! Is the food palatable enough for Your Majesty!?" questioned Sameer.

"Oh! Yes. Umm, I was about to ask you a question actually, well if you don't mind." said Arnav in a tone of reluctance.

"Mind would I certainly; I would mind the reluctance Your Majesty is exhibiting to a mere commoner." Sameer said with a smile, and thereby, his words drowned in a soulful peal of laughter.

Arnav laughed?-yes, indeed-the pale white of his countenance evaporated into a lively blush.

"Well, has there been a change of chef today? Because the food had never tasted so well before. It reminded me of my mother."

"Well, the chef has fallen severely ill today lately. And hence, our lovely nurse, Ms. Asmita Manna took the initiative to cook the dishes for the dormitories."

"Oh, I see!" added Arnav.

"Well, Mr. Lohar, if it were some other nurse, we would have been reluctant. But" told Sameer.

"But?" interrogated Arnav.

"But she has been in this rehab for over a decade. We call her Asmita Didi. She just loves this place so much. The way she nurses with that sisterly care just makes her service unprecedented. On rainy days and scorching summer months, never has she given an excuse of absence. She, never has been.

"On Christmas Day and Durga Puja, when the other members of the association remain engrossed in festivities, she, solely she visits the premises. A few night workers' smiles are deepened upon her visit.

"She is a wonderful woman, you know? She can keep us engaged in laughter and joy through her company, but she?" said Sameer. He let out a heavy sigh as if unburdening the pity of the woman.

Arnav picturised it all looking at the plate of food residing before him.

"Anyway, Arnav, we shall continue with your story in the evening. Have a nap. You do look tired. Brush off your sorrows and sleep. We want that same outstanding storytelling from you. Hence, a little rest is required for our beloved Mr. Lohar. And no worries, we shall listen to your pity and joy, and all of your experiences. Think of us as a family." Sameer uttered the words, then smiled at Arnav.

Sameer left the room and an engrossed man. Arnav was engrossed in the meal and his thoughts.

The last words Sameer uttered made his burdens a little lighter indeed. A family he said. He finished his meal and lay down upon the couch.

Arnav mused over the happenings of the entire day, from the visit of the physiatrist, his story telling to the psychiatrists, the advance of the woman, to the unburdening of his dread. The reminiscence of the happenings did astonish the man.

Musing over the chain of apparently unrelated events, Arnav had not realised how swiftly his surroundings had changed to his dreams. Arnav dreamt. He dreamt after a long epoch, dreams and not nightmares. He dreamt of his mother whom he had lost in his teens.

She silently stared at Arnav, smiling. It was a smile of hope which enlightened his mother's lips. She wore her favourite cotton saree and the matching red blouse. The fringe of her hair had been adorned in the red of vermilion. Her hands were not pale like her corpse. Her hands were youthful and were adorned graciously with a collection of bangles, ranging from a crimson blush to ocean blue. The entire spectrum of light seemed to rejuvenate the hue of her adornments. A string of pearls hung at her neck. She looked gorgeous.

But why was she going away? The woman turned around to face an abstract path. It was misty, unclear, vague. It was vignetted. She was going away. She journeyed away from Arnav, from the world, from humanity.

"Maa" shrieked Arnav.

"Maa, don't leave me Maa." pleaded he.

Suddenly, his mind journeyed back to his present. It journeyed back to the entity who lay upon the couch of the psychyatric rehab. It journeyed back to the present of Arnav who resided upon a couch of the cabin three hundred and one.

A jolt of electricity surged through Arnav compelling him to sit up. He sweated though it was not a nightmare. He took the jug which sat upon the desk. He emptied half of its contents down his throat. He, then directed his vision to the wall clock which was hung upon the wall adjacent to the one against which resided the couch and his physique.

It was an old, ebony timepiece made of timber. A pendulum hung from the grandfather's clock. It was a gold stricken copper oscillator. A loud bellow it produced upon the completion of the journey of the needle. With the commencement of each hour, a resonant bellow lingered and echoed itself. And for the rest of the hour (the other fifty nine minutes), it would kiss its silence, live with it.

A profound bellow resonated within the room. It was six o' clock in the evening.

The scorching months of June had saved a wee bit of heat and light to welcome the dusk. The sky outside was coloured in a heavenly shade of oranges, pinks and reds. It resonated with the vermilion upon the fringe of the dweller's mother; the mother who visited him in the dreams. The sky was the canvas, its base the colour of the ocean. The clouds had painted its vesture with the vestiges of the day's light.

The poignant musings of his mother, saddened Arnav. He kept capturing the scene with his watery pupils.

The world before him bore the evidence of the landscape painted upon the sky. Although vigilant of the mistic art, the hustle and bustle of life lead the commoners or the beholders into oblivion. But Arnav stared.

The signboard of the dwelling gleamed with the newly fitted neon lights. "Jeevandeep Psychiatric and Rehabilitation Centre".

The syllables gleamed through the commotion of the city. The letters, however, apparently bore something more than monotony tonight.

Upon the consumption of the colours bestowed upon the clouds, much to everyone's oblivion, dusk arrived with its pale, colourless darkness. Arnav saw it and regretted.

Dusk came concluding the beautiful play of the colours. It, perhaps, did so like the dream. The primary colours of Arnav's life were washed away with his mother.

Suddenly, he was aware of the presence of another entity in the room. He turned to face him. It was Dr. Ghoshal, his physiatrist. He was an elderly man of fifty five, who now, seemingly smiled at Arnav.

"Mr. Lohar, could we now commence our proceedings? I would like you to first sit down on that chair. Yes, before me, please. Okay." said Dr. Nirmal.

An hour went by in the therapy. The physiatrist was indeed an experienced one. He did his business but never bustled. And an intellectual sense of humour impressed Arnav in every sitting of his.

"Okay, so I guess we are done for the day. Here, brother sit down. You must be tired. I will send in some fresh chamomile tea. Use it as a replacement for the brew of your coffee. Right, captain. Have a nice day." said Dr. Nirmal with that same old grin on his face.

"Okay, doctor. No problem with that. Anyway, I am a little too sensitive to caffeine. Tea has been my mate for years. So thank you." said Arnav in a little solemn manner.

"Okay then, cap. Meet you tomorrow." said the physiatrist as he stepped for the door.

***

The doctor, having bade the patient and the cabin adieu, journeyed out through the passage. There stood a couple of men who awaited the physiatrist.

"What do you suppose, doctor? How is he?" asked one of them.

"Well, better I would say. His neurons are responding, slowly but conspicuously. I guess there is nothing to really worry about. I think Sameer, you guys should continue with the therapy. He had been hopeless for the past few days. But I think via your sittings, he has and would farther recover. We need him to be provided with the psychological support." said Dr. Ghoshal solemnly.

"Well, okay, doctor. We shall give him the support. Anyway, what about his addiction of Xanax?" asked Sameer, concerned.

"Sameer, I am quite relieved to note that his addiction is actually on its path of reduction. His CNS (Central Nervous System) is responding to stimuli and it is quite a sanguine perception. But as psychiatrists, you guys gotta give your best. He would recover quickly if he receives the proper mental support and I know that you men can provide him with it." said Dr. Nirmal with a smile of relief.

"Okay, sir. Thank you so much. We shall perform our part. I believe that we can give this man a new life." said Robin.

Sameer agreed. He, along with Robin, thanked Ghoshal whose smile did still linger as the men departed.

***

Arnav flipped through the pages of the book gifted by Sameer. "The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho" read the label.

It was a tale penned about a dreamer and his hope. It was a tale penned for the sake of the dreamers and their hopes. It was a lesson rather, a lesson of courage for the dreamless to dream.

Arnav had been engrossed in the pages of the book and endeavoured to seek himself within them and the protagonist, yet again a dreamer—Santiago—just when:
"Mr. Lohar!" exclaimed a voice from the door.

"Who? Sister? Oh! Good evening..umm.." said Arnav, a bit nervously.

"You can call me Asmita if you wish." said the entity, now entering the room by means of the same passage through which she had left.

"Okay, I would certainly." said Arnav, trying to rub of the stress from the shadowy strands conspicuous upon his forehead.

Sister Asmita held a small tray within her arms. It was a floral piece of cut-glass. Splashes of colours and shades of flowers beautified the tray. Of the shades, Arnav found crimson, blue and carmine which adorned her mother in his dream. He longed for the dream to recur.

"Your chamomile tea. Drink it. It'll help you relax. I'll keep it upon the table. I want you to drink it within the next few minutes for the brew of the warm cup would aid you better." said Sister Asmita, keeping the tray atop the table.

Asmita had that same amiable gaze within her pupils. Why do people call her ugly? A sisterly warmth enlightened her cheeks and being forever. The warmth had not been pursued by Arnav in any other before. However, there indeed was one exception. Arnav had previously percepted the warmth within the pupils of his mother.

These thoughts had exploited Arnav in oblivion and taken hold of his sanity as he contemplated the dark complexioned profile of Sister Manna.

"With your permission, Mr. Lohar, good night." said Sister.

Arnav, perhaps, did not want to let go of her and her warmth. The longed-to-be-recurred dream illusioned itself before his ebony eyes.

"Good night, sister." said Arnav in a pretense to smile.

Manna's footsteps echoed through the corridor. Arnav kept on pondering over the sound for a minute, perhaps, a little more. He slurped down the warmth of the chamomile tea in the hope that it would rejuvenate the wistful cold voids of longing within his soul.

****