When I see it from a distance, I see a white, half spherical unknown world, hanging in our sky. The child in me wants to believe that there is magic there – that there is indeed the grand mom, who spins her tales. They say sometimes, her tales slip away from her and find themselves on earth. Have you seen something magical happen in front of you? Have you ever caught a fleeting sight of a tiny little shadow that runs past you or a bright blue flower that blooms and then goes back? Those are her stories. If you have not seen them, keep looking. You might just find a story lurking around you!
The child in me tugs my sleeves once again. She wants me to write about fairies and pixies living on the moon. The grown up me knows it in not true. But just to humour her, I write. Yes, I want to believe that there are fairies and pixies and gnomes and all the goodness that live on the moon. Maybe there is an enchanted forest with a faraway tree right in the middle. I can go on and on, but imagination is endless. How do I cover it in mere words?
The poet in me looks at the moon with large eyes. What it is, she wonders – because a poet never sees the world as it is. She never sees a flower. She sees molten rainbows on green branches. She never sees the rains. She sees the tear drops of a sad cloud. She sees an orange evening and a yellow afternoon. She looks at the stars and tell me they are nothing but sprinkled sugar crystals. But when she looks at the moon, she falls silent. She stares at it, in wonder and amazement. She says it looks like a boiling vessel of milk, but she is not sure. It can also be the giant’s yo yo ball, she says.
“You speak like a child. Sometimes, I cannot tell you apart”, I complain. She smiles, “Is there a difference?”
The lover in me stares at the sky. She smiles – not a happy smile. At least we share the same sky when we are apart, we share the same moon. She goes silent quickly. I think she is thinking of him again. I leave her with her thoughts.
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