That night the rats had a bit over did their duty. For as long as he had been living in this room it had been their routine to visit his nights. This never perturbed, or even bothered him a bit. But that night, these companions of his nights had created quiet a bustle in the room. And then there was a strange unrest too, that had been churning his mind since the very evening. As he lay restlessly tossing in his bed he attempted making noises which could scare away the rats. But all his efforts counted to naught.
Then strangely, not very long after, there was a complete silence. Probably the rats had, all at once, evacuated the room and left it to him and his solitude. Soon, fatigue of the day overwhelmed him and he was fast asleep.
He dreamt himself sitting in a dark corner of his room with his head sunk in his arms, restless over some unknown feeling. And then alarmingly a clear pleasant voice had him dumbstruck. Addressing him it called "O Quest", a name he always fancied but never told anyone.
Surprised as he raised his head what does he see, a man not very tall and not short, dressed in white robes and a black turban. His fair face had a complexion so fine and luminescent that it resembled the full moon in a clear night. Although a complete stranger yet he felt like a long time acquaintance. He smiled softly, as though confirming the situation in which Quest had been. He said "O Quest, Necessity is the mother of Invention, and Curiosity the mother of Discovery, but of Poetry..." He halted for a while and then continued his concise yet pleasant elocution,"
emotional unrest is both parent and progeny of your poetry" "Emotional unrest!" he emphasized. Enquiringly he uttered "And you...?", but before he could complete his question the stranger had vanished in the dark.
The next morning he woke up earlier than his routine. He lit the room, only to notice the strange condition in which his bookshelf had been today. As he went closer he saw, quiet to his amazement, the notebook in which he used to pen his poems was bit to tatters. But surprisingly rest of the shelf was well intact. A strange thing occurred to him; he collected the bits of the erstwhile notebook, brought them to the floor and lit them up. They burned in a graceful green flame until only black ashes were cleft over. He picked up the ashes, rubbed them on his hands and pressed them on the wall. Like some fade memory they left just a very fade impression. With a pencil he highlighted it hoping it stays there forever.
Relived, he rushed out of the room and into the open. He stood staring as far as his eyes could. The sun was just about to show on the horizon. The sky was a plethora of colours, painted in light purple with streaks of orange, far at horizon a few trees lend it a tint of green and yellow. Overwhelmed with freedom he drew a deep breath. And thus he stood silently smiling, blankly wondering over what was lost and what found.
