When I was younger, I used to spend time looking at the night sky. I used to look at the stars and feel a fascination flow through me. Whenever I did this, I felt someone up there was watching us. Someone who was so happy that he wanted me to share his happiness. Someone who could do magic. And with every twinkling star I watched each night I felt that I was special. I have to admit I believed in all the fairy stories and the happily ever afters. I believed that with one swish of crackling laughter, one day, my life would become more extravagant. I believed that when I grew up an astounding miracle would happen, and I’d be transported to a finer, more beautiful world. Slowly, as I grew up I stopped looking at the night sky. It became a blanket that covered the earth at night and nothing else. All the miracle stories started receding to the background. Once or twice I looked at the moon and made her my muse for my poems. My very recent memory of being fondly in love with the night sky was when I wrote this poem on a night travelling from Agra to Delhi. I was bewitched that night I remember. I felt like that night revived my childhood for me. But that was that. Watching the sky, believing in miracles and happy endings are forgotten things now. Sure, I’ve tried to go and look for those times, but I haven’t found them. I’m guessing age does that to you. However, somewhere inside me, although dimmed, is still that hope which says that the future is going to come and sweep me off my feet. A radical change is going to happen, and I will be transported to heaven on earth. It’s a faint wish; one which I summon at times when I am feeble from growing up.