An Hour of Green

“This is our final session,” Mr. Mukit said to his patient. He, a board-diagnosed schizophrenic, had no other place to go. He did not want to be here; nor did cornered Mr. Mukit have an option.

“Go over everything again,” he added. The puzzle pieces that have surfaced over the course of these weeks have led up to this moment. In fact, the man has become not only Mansib Mukit’s favourite patient but also his obsession.

The man sits with his head drooping off to the left. His long, thick fingers with uncut nails seem to extrude from the armrests of the chair. He sits in only a vest and one-piece bottom, ready to spill his beans for the last time.

The Dining Room in an Hour of Green

“I woke up at four,” the man says, and, “A. M.,” Mr. Mukit reminds the tape recording of the session. “Yes, and it was like I was in Disneyland, only rural,” the man says. “All righty,” Mr. Mukit says as his pen hovers over the frightening labels on the checklist.

“Yes, everything was green,” the man adds, “There were patches of semi-transparent black on the ceiling, which was then green.” “And then I stepped into the dining room.”

The man adds, “There were green fairies dancing with greener elves. Green apple cores spanned the dining table. The table was made of moss, and its legs green marble.”

“Then what?” Mr. Mukit asks. “Then they all disappeared.” This twist is new, and the man adds, “I found a note on the table, which was now wooden: ‘You deserve your voice being heard.’” “Interesting,” says Mr. Mukit.

The Kitchen in an Hour of Green

“The next time I opened my eyes, I was in the kitchen. The hot stoves, sharp knives, and tricky technology had boiled down to vegetables—all green. Bell peppers, spinach, and even green amaranth strewn on the countertops made it all a humongous pantry,” the man says.

After a dramatic silence, he paraphrases himself saying, “And then they were gone. Every single one of them. Is this not too far out to be made up?” he asks. “Finish it first.”

“There was another note on the countertop, which was now ceramic: ‘You are neither a glutton nor a pig,’” the man stressed. “Go on,” Mr. Mukit nudges the man. “The next scene was in the living room,” the man continues thus.

The Living Room in an Hour of Green

“I was then in the living room,” the man adds, “Which is across from the kitchen.” “I see. And what did you find in the drawing room?” Mr. Mukit queries. “Insects.”

“The room was full to the last cubic centimetre with all kinds of insects. Namely, green butterflies, caterpillars, and snakes.” “How did they make you feel?” “I had no time to be afraid, replied the man.

“Did this room have a message, too?” Mr. Mukit asks. “Indeed,” replies the man “On the TV set: ‘You are not a leech; you are a butterfly.’”

The Guest Room in an Hour of Green

The next room was the guest room, and the man in the chair gives a brief account. “There were green bamboos, curtains, and wreathes instead of chairs and a bed there. I remember the elves and fairies we’re back dancing again, but only for a while.”

“That time, did they fade away again?” Mr. Mukit asks. “No, this time, the fairies handed me the letter. I could not read it all for passing out, but I made out this: Your anxiety is not your fault.”

“I have heard enough,” Mr. Mukit says. He stood up and tore the checklist to shreds. “You are just a man who needs inspiration. You are multitalented, but your talents conflict, and you have trouble accepting your imperfections,” he says.

Mr. Mukit adds, “You are a free man. An hour of green was your motivation from within when you needed it the most.” Mr. Green gets up for a hug.


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