Since the physician-induced coma following the second stabbing, the only smell I can distinguish is that of jasmine. How precise and pernickety our nerves and brain cells must be, that the odours and flavours of rose, of dog rose, of honeysuckle and of tiny wild orchid are all lost to me but jasmine remains. And grades of jasmine at that – how long it has been open, the time of the day, whether it has been shaken or lightly crushed, all of these make a difference. How wonderful are our brains; how wonderful the shades of jasmine.

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