Winds of the moon
Pots sizzled; pans fizzled; aromas whistled through the venue with a promise of sensory pleasures and ulcers.
The hosts had erred and invited Sir Gaffar to their party bash. He looked at the delicacies and said, ‘Hulk Smash!’
Now the guests with their pristine kerchiefs occupied the far corners as plates stacked on the table where Sir Gaffar had parked his slim girth. Yes, slim; petite, even.
‘Not fair, this affair,’ said the party peeps, observing the operation and their own sad middle-aged tummies.
Sir Gaffar paid no heed to these fools, for he had a metabolism so high that even runaway models think of it as an unfair ploy. All the booze, food, and spoons disappeared down his chute as he stared straight ahead and devoured them absentmindedly. Like he was a monk in deep meditation and not a glutton chomping on mutton.
‘Something has to give,’ whispered the host, pulling on his moustache.
He wasn’t far from the truth. Presently, Sir felt his mouth go numb and realised that he wasn’t enjoying himself that much. He looked around for the missing beat, and his heart took a momentary dip for no reason other than the bastard fancied itself as an Olympic swimmer. Then his palms suffered an identity crisis and, thinking of themselves as armpits’ distant cousins, started sweating. Before he could deal with these wayward happenings, his leg grumbled like it had grown a stomach.
Gaffar dabbed his mouth and tossed in the towel before his lips went off for an evening walk.
Then he belched.
Tables parted, toddlers farted, and old people towards the end of the tunnel departed.
Sir Gaffar rose like the Undertaker! And doubled over.
‘Might’ve overdone it a bit,’ Sir let slip.
‘A bit!’ cried a windswept kid still in the throes of the aftershock.
Sir ignored the retort and sampled the fennel.
The missus had advised a delicate touch. And if she were here, she’d have witnessed how delicately he’d touched the food. He had just touched it one too many times. And there was something else she mentioned many, many times. Something, something about a gift card for the gracious hosts: it was a wad of cash placed in an envelope, really. “It’s tradition,” she had said. Then Gaffar had rolled his eyes like he was being treated like a forgetful old person. The missus had rolled her eyes even farther and said that he was the type of person who walked into a shop, gabbled about the weather for an hour and forgot why he was there in the first place. Then she had stowed the envelope carefully in his coat.
‘Tradition,’ Sir Gaffar grumbled under his breath, patting his pockets nonchalantly. Surely it wasn’t in the breast pocket. Who stores envelopes there? There isn’t enough room. Yawn, yawn.
‘Must have forgotten it back home,’ Gaffar conferred with a plate of kebab.
The snack had nothing to add to the conversation, so he picked it up and exited the party.
‘Didn’t enjoy the food much, anyway.’
The moon hung full of scars and the night full of stars, both swimming in an endless dark for reasons not that different from a wanderer’s—looking for something waiting to be found. ‘The streetlights must get jealous of you,’ said Gaffar, strolling the empty street. ‘They are so few in number and live for a smidge.’
The sounds of the party were somewhere far behind. The street was quiet but for the occasional stray woofing and meowing. Gaffar glanced at the moon, and the clouds parted, revealing more stars. As if a wind had picked up on the moon and scattered its dust in the night sky.
What had his son called them? Celestial dandruff. Gaffar had explained that they were just big balls of fire, and the boy had chosen a snigger as an appropriate response. That’s what the stars were—gassy balls. Not that any of that stopped the boy from declaring that one day he’d go up and away and shampoo the moon. Then he wondered how many lunches he’d have to pack for such a trip.
Some days later, in the window of a curiosity shop, Gaffar came upon a telescope. It was one of those fancy ones that came with a stand as if made for extensive searching. When he came home hefting the thing, the boy had jumped straight into his arms with a massive smile, and the missus had slumped when she read the price.
‘You’d spoil the boy rotten,’ she said, grinning at the silly bliss emanating from father and son.
They set the telescope on the roof and pointed it towards the moon.
‘Someone’s there!’ cried the boy. ‘He looks like me, and he has a sheep like this one!’
The boy raised the soft toy in his hand.
But they were only looking out of the wrong end of the telescope and marvelling at their own reflections in a neighbour’s window. Not that it deterred the boy. Then and there, he resolved on a career as an astrologist. The boy meant ‘astronomer’—a human who travels the stars, unlike astrologists, who were like a bag of potatoes parading around as spring chickens. Gaffar explained all this, and the boy listened intently, hanging on each word.
‘Do not worry, Papa,’ said the boy. ‘I’ll leave the stars alone.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Can I still go up there?’
‘If you like.’
The boy nodded and climbed into his lap and was asleep before Gaffar kissed his brow. ‘You’d need many lunches for a round trip,’ he whispered, thinking on the million reasons why they shouldn’t part.
Now the moon was a little way away in the sky.
How long had he stood there thinking on a boy who once dreamed of space?
‘Two pence! Spare a tuppence!’ someone cried nearby.
Gaffar jumped and stumbled like a drum. Collecting himself, he stared at the orator of this rhyme.
‘Ask your fortune for two pence,’ the little urchin announced in earnest. He was covered in soot and was barefoot. Once again, he opened his mouth, presumably for another incantation relating to coins and fortunes. Then his tummy grumbled such that even the insomniac strays in the vicinity lurched.
The little urchin smiled embarrassingly and extended his hand, mistaking Sir Gaffar’s friendly demeanour for benevolence. And certainly not someone who would meet a request for charity with a swung bat.
Gaffar glanced at the night. The stars sure looked like dandruff from this distance.
‘A boy lives there,’ whispered the urchin.
‘How do you know?’
‘I heard from the winds of the moon.’
‘Is that so?’
The urchin extended his hand.
‘I forgot my wallet at home,’ said Gaffar, fumbling with his pockets, and the urchin kept his hand extended as if not listening to the words but the heartbeat.
From the coat pocket came the envelope; its surface was illustrated with joyful patterns like the ones women draw on festivals. They both stared as if Gaffar had pulled a sparkly rabbit out of his pocket. Slowly a smile spread on the urchin, and somewhere inside Gaffar, a rocket lifted from the surface of his heart.
And the stars rearranged themselves.
