Memoirs of a night sky

The night sky was dark, as usual, the stars glowed bright led by the old moonlight, as usual and I flew by her ears singing melodies of silence, cold currents, as usual. As usual - she liked this phrase so much. Whatever the question be whatever the circumstance, the answer: as usual. So small in size, so delicate, easy to ignore- just like her but so dense and deep in meaning: just like her, she always wanted to add whenever she told me this.

Night time held special place in her heart for as long as I knew her, why? I don't know. She always sat by me on the roof looking at the stars and the moon and at times we even tried to count the stars dividing the sky in parts – mine and hers or the ditches in the face of moon. We counted the number of howls we heard every minute when her father bought her a watch on her birthday, we looked out for strange noises at the night and after waking her father thrice on a single night for “emergency” - we learnt that night can never be quiet and that every noise coming from a house is not of a thief. Probably, that's why she liked it at night, the unexpected activity, the virility of it all - she was always thrilled by dark. She always told me - life comes alive at night.

It was a night, as usual, when we first met. She was hardly 5, her father was the new head postmaster, promoted recently but the promotion had come with a transfer: to a village, in the far countryside. Not that it bothered him for he had spent his childhood bathing on the dust covered streets; he was worried about his daughter, about her education, about her upbringing. Her mother had died giving birth to her: too soon, he always thought but he got a maid quite easily here. It was her first night on the roof and looking at her staring at the stars in awe, I knew I was going to like her and before we knew, we were talking, about what? I don't recall really; but it was the first time I'd befriended someone. Our friendship grew over the years that came by, along with her fascination for the night.

She'd always wondered about her mother but in the more recent days she was obsessed with her, I don't know why. Suddenly all we talked about was her mother: how was she, what did she like, what did she wear- everything. It was her constant nagging that one day I gathered the guts to ask her what it was all about. She told me that she wanted to know where she came from and what'd have it been like had her mother was alive. Also that she'd reached something called pewberty recently and the hormones and juices inside her were giving her a hard time and she was an emotional train wreck.

I remember the night at dinner when the postmaster finally broke down. She'd asked about their marriage and for the postmaster, all that grief he had tried to bury beneath the smile of their daughter resurfaced and for the first time in his life he snapped at her. Leaving her at the dinner he’d stormed out and she was clueless. I don’t know why but then she went out of the door instead of our usual place on the roof and somehow it changed our lives altogether.

I don’t remember that night very clearly and I don’t even want to. The night was a rush but I remember her ending up in the not-very-good parts of the village; I remember the drunken bastard attacking her, assaulting her and then in the morning, a marred corpse was all she remained: a transition so fast that it left me baffled. I can try and detail the happenings to make you feel my sorrow but that is how I remember things and I don’t want to go further in my misery.

That’s how it ends. I wished it ended differently but that’s all I could do. The nights still fall, as usual the stars still glow led by the old moonlight, as usual and I still blow, as usual. She doesn’t come in the nights now for she is no more than a pile of ashes – small in size, delicate, easy to ignore but also dense and deep – at least she accomplished that. More than you, I wish things had turned out differently but she’s a pile of ashes now and I am the wind and I blow, as usual.