When There Were Stars
When I was little, I remember the pure and subtle rush of happiness I extracted from random, mundane scenes of life. The curious excitement that came from seeing stars in the sky fails to resurface now in the start of my adulthood. I credit this to the disappearance of those stars. Well, that wouldn't be entirely true, because there’s always that one Venus star that shines the brightest, like the moon it follows us around. Between the silhouette of trees as you fog up the car window, on random Thursdays as you look up to break eye contact or when you suddenly remember you haven't gazed at the stars since you were little. Perhaps they lost their core heat and simply dwindled into the gaseous vacuum sea, or maybe they’re like a travelling theatre company, they simply realised they had run their course and that they were no longer attractive, no longer romantic,
No longer needed.
And so, they packed up their shit and retired. Perhaps every constellation had this epiphany. I suppose I would be the devoted admirer of such artistic brilliance, the kind that buys tickets to every show and stays hopeful for a reunion since the unexpected disbandment. If you’re still reading with this anecdote in mind, then I guess my favourite show must be the one when there’s a power cut. It always had to be on a warm, sticky night. The ominous streetlight towered over the purple wall, its dull cool toned sombreness blanketing the road. You could tell apart the beams as they fell diagonally, but not distinguish between the fine particles and fungus gnats. Suddenly, not quick enough to surprise you but not slow enough to let one prepare, at an ungodly hour, the black of the night steals man’s light. The night loudly is upon us.
I sit obediently, suppressing a conscience that reminds me that I may be afraid of the dark. I listen as the ladies shift in a maternal panic. After some clanks and low registered muttering, a moving glow illuminates the room followed by another, which is followed by another. Thus, a candle in each room, (in my opinion) careless supported by a weak layer of wax underneath it. We huddle in the hall, a grandmother, her daughter, her daughter’s daughter and son. As the women talk of domestic affairs and the misfortunes of lukewarm relatives, I take to scribbling in my very serious diary. Writing stories and drawing illustrations to support them. Ripping of pages with every small error I make, frustrated with not being able to make the drawing look credible, I lay down in defeat. The scraping noise of plastic wheels against the marble tiles garnishes the sounds in the room. There seems to be an intense race amongst Hot wheels cars and the one and only Lightning McQueen. I try not to draw too much attention as I eavesdrop into the adult conversation, quietly picking up scandalous information and trying to put the pieces of previous conversations together. It was like watching a soap opera from the middle and having missed an episode every now and then. As the room quiets down, and the candles shorten with ridges of wax crystals forming on them, a quite hum of a Malayalam hymn fills the air. After every verse a quick breath as her age demands it. A medium pitched rather nasally voice, then a more youthful one joins in “Kel-kane en Prarthana, nalgane en yajana ” and finally a squeaky soft, voice barely audible sings along. Once every Tom, Dick and Harry had been discussed, and my pen finally rolled out of my hand and the screeching wheels had stopped for multiple yawns, the shifting began again.
I held my teddy tight in my left hand and in my right, I expertly wedged a sprite bottle and a regular bottle, both filled with water. I diligently followed the torch light up the lilac stairs, slightly wary of the fat lizard haunting the slab above. Any moment they could fall on me with their thick, disgusting reptile length. We entered the terrace one by one and carefully placed the rusted iron gate at the entrance. It prevented stray dogs from breaking and entering. We positioned the coir mats in the middle and laid our supplies in an accessible distance. I quickly run the tap at the space across us and fill water in the mug near it and then like a firefighter on duty, I sprinkled and splashed the water around us. A trick I learnt from a friend to cool our surroundings. I gently sprinkle some on myself hoping it would fight away the humidity waiting to attack us. Much to all of our disappointment, the mosquitoes got to us before the humidity could. A good few minutes had passed, the air now smelled of Odomus and my small person wriggled uncomfortably. A strong hand at the rightmost end waves a green plastic fan vigorously, while another hand, a wrinkled one from beside me lays gently on my skin patting me to sleep. A tender motion but not soft, her palms were rather dry with aged knife cuts from dicing and peeling vegetables. Still there was comfort in it, a sense of security like something that needed to be preserved. A sense that suggested that this is how things are meant to be and suddenly in that moment, the world was just right. Troubled with the lack of silver spoon comfort or in my case a stainless steel one, I gaze up at the sky. And there it was, everything that was right with the universe, displayed like a painting that mere mortals did not deserve to lay eyes on. Such I suppose is the value of what we lose along the way, significant when within reach and dangerously invaluable when lost. Every star looked like a jewel, like they had a purpose like they were deliberately placed in a secret pattern that I could not decode. The clouds were smoky blue shade easily standing out and veiling the moon. I raise my finger and draw an invisible line trying to connect all of them. It was open terrace, legally it was mine and anything on it was also mine. Since there was no roof did that mean the sky was mine too? The seldom breeze that blew in was not trespassing, then did the breeze belong to me as well? and the stars? that cruised so far away but right above our terrace, nothing in between to claim them. I suppose they were mine, but only for that moment.
I cannot remember the last time I looked up for the sole purpose of looking at the stars, When I remember that I once had such amusements in my life, I lift my head only to be greeted by vacant nothingness. It's like going to visit the home you grew up in. You remember the turns and recognise the streets and shops. Everything looks familiar but nothing looks the familiar. Slowly but sadly, you realise the world as you knew it no longer exists. And the stars I declared mine only belonged to me in a distant memory that would lose its core heat and soon dwindle away into nothingness.