How many times have you laid under the stars and wondered about what’s out there? Is there really someone like you, millions of light years away, looking down at you from somewhere up there? This question has fascinated me forever: Are we really alone in the universe?
We have billions of stars in our Milky Way; in those billions, are we truly the only living, breathing planet? Are we the only “intelligent species”? And if there is intelligent life out there, why aren’t they reaching out to us? Wait. Did I just say that? I retract that. I guess we can truly call them “intelligent life” as they probably are NOT interested in contacting us, looking at the state of affairs on Earth.
My childhood was mostly spent sleeping under the stars in the summers, with the cool sea breeze wafting by. You see, my house is right on the beach. Juhu in the 1970s was lovely and quiet. Mumbai’s city lights back then weren’t bright enough to dim out the shining stars. One could actually hear the waves lapping on the shore. I remember I’d have my cousins over from Agra and Gwalior during the vacations. Mattresses were put out and it was a treat for all the kids to sleep on the terrace with snacks, chats and lots of masti. From within, a chachi or taiji or mom would call out at intervals, “So jao abhi”. But did we listen? No! We kept giggling away, counting the stars in the night sky, well into dawn.
In my teens, I believed Superman (from the first movie) existed and I had the sweetest pre-adolescent crush on Christopher Reeves and stood on my terrace, many a night, staring at the stars, looking for the planet Krypton, wondering... if I shut my eyes and focused hard and called his name, he actually would just fly down and sweep me into his arms, like he did with Lois Lane in the movie and we would fly all over the city.
Then came the adolescent romance with the stars. Lying down on the bungalow’s water taanki at night, mooning away, staring at infinity, listening to Pankaj Udhas and Kishore Kumar’s romantic tracks. All the while sneaking a look at the opposite balcony for the crush of the season.
In the mid-20s, my romance with the stars continued. Long romantic walks under the stars and the first kiss. The first sightings of shooting stars under a glorious diamond-studded Swiss sky. Making empty wishes on them. There’s something about a moonless night, making the stars shine brighter.
A superstar satellite or a full moon blots out the magic of those little balls of gas. But hey, the full moon does its work on me, too... no, not in a werewolf sort of way, but being a full-blooded Scorpion, the tides control me. But that’s for another time and another column.
My relationship with the stars (not the filmi ones, but the heavenly body types) continues even today. On vacations with the kids, I take them for walks under the African jungle skies or the coastal Maldivian skies... wherever we might be. I tell them about the magic the skies hold at night, the romance of lying on the grass or sand and just staring up at the stars without the city lights glaring back at you.
At times, when I feel life closing in on me, I rush out of the city into quieter areas — a night drive through the jungle or higher ground, where I can lie again under the stars, and reassure and refresh myself. It’s almost therapeutic for me. I close my eyes and wish for stardust to be sprinkled upon me and to still be able to wish upon a shooting star when I see one.
