Living Under the Stars

Chandni made a dart for the French window that opened out to the terrace and peered at the sky. She couldn’t see a single star. Where did the stars disappear? She had been following this ritual religiously for the last forty days in the hope that she might be able to recover the lost sky twinkling with stars. She even pulled out an old bioscope from a chest of drawers to scan the night sky. But the stars had begun a rare sight visible only in old movies. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a starry night. She had taken for granted that stars, like the sun and the moon and the sky would always be there. But stars had vanished from the face of the earth like house sparrows.

Chandni recalled her mother who had a limited repertoire of songs sing a lullaby to put her siblings to sleep. It began with the refrain ‘tim tim karte taare’ and roughly translates as “The stars twinkling in the sky, they all say, come, sleep is calling you to the world of dreams”. She found herself crooning the same lullaby when she became her mother pointing out the stars to the little one. How would mothers sing their babies to sleep without the stars? How would they compare the child to the star of their eyes? How would lovers swear by their undying love calling the stars to witness? How would poets draw on a starry imagery to describe the beloved’s beauty?

Chandni closed her eyes and she had time travelled to her childhood summer vacations in a small town when there were few ceiling fans and no air conditioners. She was on the terrace gazing at the stars hanging in the sky. She couldn’t wait for the dinner to be served so that she could bind up to the terrace. The string cots had been arranged in a segregated space on the terrace, men on one side, women and the smaller children on the other and older children in a part of the women’s half. The white sheets and covers smelt fresh and felt cool. They would run wild on the terrace and play ‘catch catch’ running between the cots until they could hear the patriarch announce his arrival climbing one step at a time to the sound of the Hindu primal syllable. They would quickly get into bed and pretend to sleep. The rest of the males followed and conversed about politics and business for about half an hour until the women arrived with their faces covered and tucked the smaller children into bed. The women could be heard whispering confidences to one another. Chandni and her cousins who would congregate annually waited until the adults were in deep sleep, some breathing gently and the others snoring before beginning their nightly conclave under the starlit night.

Chandni had, in fact, been gazing at the stars while pretending to be asleep. As the only girl and the youngest in the gang of five, she was more used to listening rather than giving her views. She listened to her older cousins exchange notes about their school, their teachers and classmates, the pranks they had played and the subjects they hated. At times, they went into extended discussions on space travel, life on the moon and science fiction. She tried to pipe in by reeling off the names of the three men who had moon walked but was hushed off by her young aunt sleeping next to her. The conversation meandered from serious to frivolous and sotto voce admissions of crushes when her cousins believed she was fast asleep. But she would not miss a single snatch of their conversation while taking in the beauty of the starlit sky. Then she would hear their voices trail off and the sounds of their breathing. But she would not be able to sleep and start counting the stars to get to sleep. But then she would remember the saying that each star counted would lead to the eruption of a new mole. She already had four and was mercilessly teased about them and checked herself just in time. But the dark sky with stars hanging so low that she could almost touch them enveloped her in deep sleep.

Chandni often dreamt of those summer nights. The night when she was asked to perform kathak steps before her grandmother was an embarrassing moment she would rather forget. She had been practicing the basic kathak steps for a fortnight under her aunt’s supervision. She was first taught the footwork and then to harmonize her arms movements with those of her feet to the rhythm of ta thai thai tat/aa thai thai tat. But Chandni was born with two left feet and let her aunt down badly when she was asked to perform before an audience consisting of the entire extended family presided by Grandmother on the full moon night. Chandni lost count of the beats and forgot to coordinate her hand and foot movements. As her aunt desperately gestured to her to remind her she needed to do, she looked beseechingly at the stars to release her from the ordeal. The stars came to her rescue because Grandmother suddenly remembered that dinner had to be served and retreated into the kitchen. Chandni’s cousin brothers who had been making monkey faces at her all through to distract her now lost all control and began to mimic her awkward movements. Vicky could dance better than any female dancer when he got in the mood. When they found that she was in tears, they stopped horsing around and consoled her by saying kathak was a stupid dance any way and took turns to hug her. 

She would never forget their competing with one another to spot a falling star. When the adults exhausted after the day’s work had fallen into deep REM sleep, the insomniac five would gaze at the sky in the wild hope that they could espy a falling star. They say that when you make wish on a falling star it always come true. Chandni would keep her wishes ready in case she forgot what to wish for when she saw one. Their patience often turned into frustration when they there was no sign of a falling star despite their long vigil. But there were those special days when their patience paid off and they were able to follow the fall of one. The one who would spot it would be about to squeal with delight but was stopped just in time by a palm suddenly covering his mouth. If the adults got wind of their nocturnal games, they would have hell to pay. Even though they were not supposed to reveal their secret wish, they would still whisper to each other what they had asked for. Chandni had already guessed who had made what wish. She knew who wanted a cricket bat and who a football, who wanted to go on a spin on a brand new cycle and who wanted a guitar. She had so many wishes that she was confused about which one to ask for. By the time she made up her mind about what she wanted most, the star had already disappeared in the sky.

But Chandni loved the nights when the stars in the sky paled in comparison to the razzle dazzle of the wedding procession passing through the street. They would hear the wedding band begin the music and bound up the stairs and perch themselves on the low wall of the terrace to find out who was getting married. The band dressed in white with red sashes would lead the procession followed by the groom riding a mare with his face covered with a string of fresh flowers. Like the moon behind the clouds reveals itself to the patient, he would push aside the strings to reveal his face and give onlookers enough time to take a good look. Ahead and on either side of the groom’s mare would be young males dancing the bhangra to film tunes or Punjabis songs. They would challenge each other to perform difficult steps culminating in what is known as the snake dance. Women, whose outfits embroidered in gold or silver thread, sequins or stones, could out dazzle the stars overhead, and the elderly remained at the rear. Some of the younger women joined their partners shyly or brazenly to the delight of the families peering from their terraces to admire their looks, attire and dance. The procession would stop every few steps giving the voyeurs sufficient time to identify who were related to the groom in what way before moving forward. She squealed with disappointment when it stopped below their house and the groom unveiled his face. Her aunt clamped her mouth just as he gazed upwards in the direction of their terrace.

If there was a wedding in the family, the glitter and glamour moved to their terrace with each woman in the neighbourhood trying to outshine the others by wearing more tinsel than the other at the sangeet or musical evening. Since this was an all-women’s show away from the prying male gaze they could let themselves go under the smiling stars. The oldest woman usually played a small drum called the dholki and the women sang bawdy wedding songs that included name-calling, using words with double meaning and abusing the in-laws while clapping to the tune. As the evening wore on, the singing became more energetic and loud with some of the women rising out of the circle to dance the giddha. When they danced to duets, a woman adopted male deportment and expressions to don the male roles. Veils were lifted, heads bared and chunnis tied around the waist, the women abandoned themselves to the joy of dancing. The stars twinkled in approval as their sequined chunnis fluttered with their gentle, swaying movements and their gold danglers pendulated with their head nods.  Chandni couldn’t recognize some of the women in their family in their unfamiliar avatar because they had chucked their timid, restrained behaviour for wild, uncontrolled movements and full throated laughter. But their spell of fun and games was short as they would have to cast off their shimmery wedding outfits for daily wear and get back the kitchen so to be able to serve men their dinner at the appointed time.

Chandni eavesdropped on adult’s conversations as they lay on their beds with their faces turned to the stars. The male members would retire to the terrace leaving the women to clean up and indulge in almost an hour of business talk. The talk about supplies and sales with confusing numbers sounded like Greek and Latin to her. But she tuned in to how the paterfamilias planned to diversify the family business. The sons listened respectfully rarely questioning his wisdom until he began to snore. This is when they would come up with new ideas each more outrageous than the other moderated by the eldest who would listen to each one patiently before gently bringing the debate to an end by suggesting, “let’s sleep over it”. And they slept over each aery faery idea that disappeared at the crack of dawn since none had the guts to broach it with the patriarch. But there was no harm in making big plans lying under the stars so what if they were out of reach. Then the mothers and daughters-in-law appeared with their heads decorously covered carrying sleeping infants or toddlers and slipping into their designated cots on the female wing of the terrace.  By then, the matriarch was already fast asleep. Although they were dog tired after slaving away in the kitchen all day, they snatched half an hour of whispered complaints and confessions and muffled jokes with the stars as witness. The rule about making complaints and confessions was that no names were mentioned and only pronouns used to unburden the caged soul. Jokes involved a lot of hushing and shushing because they were largely sexual in nature based on their own experiences in bed. Chandni couldn’t tell whether the muffled sounds that floated across the cots in the female wing were sobs or laughter. Sometimes couldn’t connect the language of the jokes with the coy restrained aunt who would rarely utter a word in the presence of elders. She tried to make sense of the snatches of conversation that she caught and gave up when she was overcome with sleep.

She woke up once in the middle of the night to use the washroom downstairs, which was a nightmare because the downstairs was pitch dark. Dreading meeting ghosts on the way to the washroom, she kept looking up in the direction of the stars to ensure that she was under their watchful eye. Fortunately for her, one of the insomniac grandparents was up and about depending on when she got up. In the first quarter after midnight, the sight of her grandfather raising his head to check who was walking past him and making a guttural sound was extremely reassuring. If she were to run to ghosts, she could always count on him to come and rescue her. She was more likely to run into her grandmother in the wee hours of the morning. Grandmother believed that all work should be completed before sunrise and would be seen moving down the steps. By the time, the other women were up, which couldn’t be too late since they couldn’t be seen bareheaded by the men in the house, she would have bathed and said her prayers and made preparations for breakfast while the stars were still up in the sky. There were times when Chandni couldn’t get back to sleep. She could keep staring at the stars in the hope that she would be able to sleep. As a last resort, she would even start counting the stars but remember just in time that it was inviting more mles than the number that made you look attractive.

Grandmother said those who had passed on turned into stars. A year later, grandfather had turned into a star leaving grandmother to dress into the widow’s white. They still slept under the stars but missed the sound of his snores. The gang of five had dispersed with some having gone overseas and the others to the deep South. Only one continued to keep grandmother company in the dilapidated house until Grandmother also became a star and the house with a terrace with the memories of a million stars was sold to an unknown buyer. The new owner raised the height of the low wall covering the terrace to prevent accidental falls. He was given the keys to the room on the terrace where the string cots were kept during the day. But he was denied access to the memories of starlit nights under which many dreams took shape. Some were nipped in the bud but the others were chased even if it meant reaching for the stars.

Chandni came out every day to look for the stars. The pollution levels were nil, the earth was clean and the mountains had become visible behind the skyline of overcrowded cities. Deers had come to promenade on the mall and dolphins in the rivers. Every morning she spied a new bird whose name she did not know. But the stars continued to elude her for forty days. On the forty first day, she fixed her stare on the sky and was rewarded with the brief glimpse of a starlit sky. She did not stop counting the stars because she knew that the mole story was an old woman’s tale. “Tim tim karte tare”, she found herself humming the lullaby that she had almost forgotten.