A therapy, was it, more apt, more prolific than the electroconvulsive (shock therapies) intended for the aid of the patient. This newly invented therapy was to be carried out in the ensuing days.

Sameer strove to provoke Arnav into spitting his secrets, his anguish out.

"Arnav, are you alright?" asked Robin, the similar sagacity and concern reflecting within his orbs.

"Umm, yes, I am. This girl was a maniac!-this deduction had been more than a supposition perhaps. You know, I had fallen for a maniacal love. It was an insane, imperfect, maddening desire and attraction, and the vestiges of the love had been the deep, agonizing, taunting wounds inflicted upon my disposition.

For I had been a maniac too." said Arnav, a profound vehemence repercussing within the refrain.

"For I had been a maniac too."

"Arnav, share your burdens with us, I repeat. Thinking of them won't help. We aren't cops. We are allegiant folks. Share it, Arnav. And we have patience. So open up." said Sameer, in an endeavour to provide solace.

"You had said that nostalgia cannot evoke anguish or induce tears. Well, it does for me and I shall tell you how. I shall tell you all, without missing any voids." said Arnav, looking out of the window, observing the evening hues.

"Oh, we would love to hear." said Sameer, his voice hinting of triumph upon hearkening Arnav's words.

"Sameer, you know, we searched for freedom, independence from this extremely vicious sphere of discrimination. The tantalization of the womenfolk of the slum would haunt the hearts of the Dalits. But Gandhiji had bestowed his compassion upon me and our caste-he would call us 'the children of God'-'Harijans'. But upon putting forth these disputes and logic, the residents of the slum (the ones belonging to the higher castes) would shrug their shoulders, put a frown upon their face, and say,

"'So what!? You happen to be a Dalit, a disgrace to humanity! And you can never wipe it off—the blotch, the canker of being one of these disgraceful, dirty, and loathsome creatures. You may never wipe it off!'

"Drawing water from the slum well was prohibited for us. We had to purchase water bottles for our daily usage from the market miles away from the residence.

"Of the many who taunted, Vikash Dev and Parvati Dev were prominent; they were Ishita's parents. They, somehow, felt elated to persecute and discriminate!—especially on the basis of casteism. Being Kshatriyas, they cherished their superiority to us.

"This so called, 'noble' practice as they said, continued to linger amid the slum and its surroundings, although, the outside realm had advanced way farther. According to them, it was obnoxious to treat the different people similarly for they occupied different positions. Who would've made them understand that God didn't hold perspectives, He held the ultimate truth! He didn't have facets of dissimilarity like humans or their so called 'society' but the sooth beneath the tapestries of falseness. Oh, who would've made them understand!?

"I loved Ishita!" said Arnav, the same profound grief whirling within the whirlpool of his soul.

After a moment's silence or perhaps, lamentation, Arnav continued,

"I loved Ishita. She loved me, I suppose. She hated..." Arnav was unable to complete.

"You suppose?" asked Sameer, his brows stressed downwards to express the emotion of pensiveness.

"Well, have patience, my dear Sameer." said Arnav, his lips parted into a smile fused with agony, pity, scorn and mockery.

"One fine day, she had come to me bearing the same requests. My heart agreed but my words didn't. This was an excruciating agony, the greatest crucifixion of the soul." said Arnav. He let out a sigh.

"Tell us about your family now." said Robin, and Sameer nodded to express his consent.

***

An expression, half of bewilderment, half of a bittersweet nostalgia now, flooded Arnav's with the accumulated tears.

He narrated, "We were a family of five: my elder brothers, Arjun and Arvind were four and three years elder to me respectively; Shikha, my younger sister, was five years younger to me; Mr. Manik Lohar, our father, had taken the burden of our well-being solely upon his laborious shoulders.

"My father was a solemn man, who had lost the meaning of laughter with my mother to cholera in the cursed year of nineteen ninety when I prolly was about fifteen or sixteen, Shikha was about thirteen, Arvin Dada eighteen and Arjun Da nineteen.

"I loved my father. He was indeed a man of reverence. But not of laughter or humour. I know not the very last time when I had seen him laugh. At the colliery, days were dark, and hence, father did also sink deep down into the ocean of darkness, remorse and despair.

"One day, prolly a day or two before the arrival of Durga Puja, we had all begged for new clothes, kurtas, sarees and make-up. My sister, Shikha had fancied a box full of cosmetics and a saree of red. She had fancied new lipsticks and blushes to adorn herself.

"Me, on the other hand, had fancied a new kurta, a festive one in hues of yellow and orange. My elder brothers too had fancied purchasing belongings of the kind.

"My father, however, was a man of solemnity. He had promised that he would try his best to arrange for the gifts but!- said Arnav. He had begun to choke on his own tears.

"But!?" asked Sameer and Robin, together, unified.

"Upon the night of Prathama(the first day of the festival), my father was to bring back home the purchases for the puja which included a saree, the kurtas and a few garlands of marigolds and hibiscus to adorn the frame of my deceased mother hung in the mansion.

"That day, however, had dusked sooner than the other days. Or perhaps, it seemed so for our elation and excitement had restrained us from keeping track of the wall clock. Time flew away in its own independent pace, unperturbed by our uncanny revels. Me and my siblings, that day, had laid down upon the muddy porch, dreaming dreams of happiness and festivities. I dreamt of Ishita.

"Upon the arrival of dusk, the autumn sky and the cottony clouds rejuvenating its festive hue had all but hued into a darker shade of blue. It became darker and darker with each hour. When it had metamorphosed itself to a pitch black night, and the hour hand of the wall clock had journeyed to seven, our thoughts and awareness returned to ourselves after hovering restlessly in the autumn skies. They had hovered, unperturbed, for the past few hours of delight. They returned with reason and an ominous apprehension—

"Father had not come home!"

****