As I look out of my window at night, I’m reminded of what I see in daylight. Here and there, I see a bus, only stopping when it has space. Here in India, where is space? People wait and get late. Not many can afford an auto. There’s no dearth of poor people here.
Fruit sellers try to sell their bounty for almost nothing. Fruit is our staple now.
My eyes greet no migrant laborers nowadays. They’ve all gone or are going. Some may reach home and hug the living daylights out of their beloved. Some may touch death. All taste a bit of that struggle.
When I look at stars, I notice constellations. As I name them, one by one, each star connecting the other, I begin seeing this whole situation as a journey. A struggle, yet a journey. A path excluding no one.
Fear grips me when I think of my grandparents who are in a village with a huge caseload. Darling Moon, go protect them, will you? They are as careful as ever, though.
If only we communicate as stars do in constellations like a tether was weaving its way around all of us. If only we were weaved together, with obvious spaces, all things considering. It would at least bring more hope.
However, as I cherish the darkness and moonshine outside my window, I am also filled with gratitude. I am not sick. None of my family members are either. Time is aplenty. Our home doesn’t lack comfort. Our lives are cozy. But then again, pain clenches me when I think of those whose lives aren’t as much.
I close my window, sighing. Mixed feelings tire me out.
I climb onto my bed, cover the duvet over myself and wish the world good night.