#CosmoShortStories Moonlight, Starlight: a Love Story By Gitanjali Murari

Manav stared at the fan. Its blades turned slowly, so slowly he could count the rotations. A tear trickled down the side of his face, his mouth opening wide in a wail.

 

Four days back, Manav’s producer had told him he couldn’t pay him anymore. “The shoots have stopped…”

“So you’ve killed the show,” Manav had cut in.

“I didn’t kill it…it’s the bloody virus,” the producer had yelled.

“But the channel is still on,” he had shouted back, desperate.

“It’s playing reruns, you idiot!” 

 

A loud hum, like that of a busy market, penetrated through the thin walls, filling the cramped room. Manav stumbled out into the long corridor lined with rooms just like his, the doors all ajar. Families, neighbours he had never noticed before, rushed through the courtyard, clutching babies and luggage. A man hurried past him, carrying beat-up suitcases, his wife dragging two children by the arm. “What’s going on?” Manav called out. Not breaking his stride, the man replied, “Get out of Mumbai, fast. We are all going home, to our villages.”

 

The chawl emptied in minutes. A crushing loneliness overwhelmed him. “I can’t go back,” he screamed, “I swore never to.”

“Stay here then.”

He spun around. A pair of large, brown eyes above a blue mask appraised him frankly. “I’m Rekha,” the girl continued, her tone confident, authoritative. “And this is my chawl.”

“You are…the owner?” The disbelief in his face made her eyes sparkle, dangerously. She tossed her head, “You can clear out if you want.”

“It’s the rent,” he said, “I can’t pay it.”

“What do you do?”

“I was a scriptwriter until…” he trailed off, sighing despondently.

“Was? What stops you from writing now?”

He frowned at her, “You won’t understand.”

She raised her eyebrows. “In case you want inspiration, let me know. I know many stories, all true,” and as she turned on her heel, she shot over her shoulder, “I won’t ask you for rent.”

 

Darkness came swiftly, the silence oppressive. Every rustle from outside made him jump up, his heart in his mouth. He tried listening to music on his phone but gave up, and when he heard the tinkle of anklets, his mouth went dry. The door pushed open and Rekha peered in. “Got you some dinner,” she said gruffly, “leaving it outside.”

She left a tiffin-box for him every evening after that. “Why are you doing this?” He burst out after a few days. Crossing the courtyard, she looked back at him in surprise, “Because artists must keep creating, or else how will the world survive?”

He stared at her, ashamed and moved. “Tell me about you,” he said, and she, after a moment’s hesitation, returned, sitting down some distance from him.

 

“My father died a few weeks back,” she began, “and because ma and my little brother are too…you know,’ she shrugged, “I took charge.” After a pause she added softly, “I wanted to be a dancer.”

 

In the solitude of the chawl, they slowly discovered it was the same vulnerable heart beating in them. He began to wait for her, writing frantically during the day and pacing the corridor in the evenings, eager to read out his musings, watching her face.

She twirled in one night, dancing around the courtyard, her anklets singing a song of abandon. “Have you seen so many stars before?” she laughed, raising her arms to the sky. “They make the moon look even more beautiful!”

Not yet a perfect circle, it shone at them, white and pure.

“You are the moonlight in my life,” he told her.

Rekha extended her leg, her shoe touching his, “And you are the starlight in mine.”

Author Gitanjali Murari