A right turn. Then a left. Again a right. Now straight. Still does not feel right. Another of my insomniac nights. It is 3 in the morning and I still cannot lull myself to sleep. It is summer and the cool waft through my couple-of-inch-open window sends me playful cues to let it in. I take the hint and throw open both the wide panes to welcome the soothing gusts and drench in it. As the wind races through my hair and ruffles my bangs, I sit up to admire the perfect full moon beaming down on life below.
The silver light is just right for romance. Not only lovey-dovey-romance, but the romance in exploration, the romance in stepping out or even the romance in simply looking deeper. I, with my narrow band of tolerance for “gooey romantic crap” (I am quoting a friend here), had forever found the link between lovers and moonlight supremely clichéd. But this time, maybe because I was crushing on a fellow human, I could appreciate why generations of poets and lovers found their inspiration in this bliss of a night. I have been in love before and we had our share of hand-in-hand walks in neon lit pavements. But the moonlight weaves a fairytale. If you think you need to be calmed down, if you think you need space from your partner, if you think you are about to commit something stupid, allow yourself this luxury of taking a pyajama-and-slippers stroll on a full moon night.
That night was one of several sleepless nights of being restless and indecisive, owing to my joblessness. I cannot simply not work, I have to wake up to a productively planned day. To work or not to work is my (in)discretion, but I require some job to look forward to when I wake up each morning. But things happen when they do. And I become restless-well, like always. But I can always count on the Moon, all silvery and beaming when I lay down at night, turn off the lights and look through the window.
I was born and brought up in a metropolitan of the 90’s. As I reminisce about my childhood days I find my best memories in summer evenings. There was a huge field right behind the house, and a huger pond bordered with Neem and Mango trees all around. The breeze whistling through tree leaves, the croak of the old frog and then the familiar tinkling of a bell. Right at 7, the ice-cream wala dada would call out “Mishti didi” for me, and ring his string tied bell. I would go hop-skip-and-jump all merry and free and indulge myself in a variety of popsicles. Orange-green-pink-even black! It was Happy Holi on my tongue every evening.
But one thing was amiss from the perfect picture. I could never, ever see stars in the gray sky. I was very little when I remember seeing a skyfull of little stars. And then again when I was 26. In Aachen, my current home. I just have to wait for it to be dark and simply look at the sky, and there they are- millions of them- winking at me. The first time I found my long lost stars, I sat through the night, looking at them. I had honestly forgotten that stars could be seen in a city. I think I even wrote a little poem about it.
Few years back when I was coping with a bad fallout with my bestie, I found my pill in ice-creams at 2 in the morning. But because of my recent broke girl status owing to no job and marginal savings, stocking up yum ice-creams for every night for 4 months is a desperate luxury. But walking in the moon bathed front yard comes at literally zero cost. Also you don’t go on a guilt trip on a nightly basis for consuming 414 calories, because lazybones as you are, you can stamp and seal that you would never work out. Plus inhaling night air makes you feel lighter even if you are on the wrong planet. So basically the returns are much higher than what the deceptive box of choco-chip butterscotch with walnut and honey encrusted with Nutella shell has in store. Get a grip. Don’t drool. Slip in your slippers and slip outta that door. The silver maiden and her twinkling girls are right there waiting to sweep you off your feet.