Five layers of moonlight

It had been particularly grim in Marseille that week, quite unusual for the city. Apparently there was a storm in nearby Montpellier and the residual rainy winds came to Marseille. These winds were not violent like the mistral. They were grim. The mistral and these stormy winds took turns to bang at my kitchen window. As the sun set—not that it mattered, the sun, that glorious thief, seemed to have permanently stolen the day—the pasty glow of the streetlamp filtered weakly through my dusty window panes. My room was cast in a perpetual twilight. The only, slight, optimism was the promise of a murky tomorrow.

My routine, at the time, was as predictable as the groan of the shudders each time the mistral wind rattled them. Wake up, tea, stale bread (never fresh, never good), write, leftovers for lunch, write, and then this—my corner of the world, bathed in the pale luminescence of a singular bulb, the sliver of moonlight sneaking through the clouds, the ghostly reflection on the chipped enamel of my teapot, and the faintest echo of it all in the whites of my tired eyes.

That night, however, the usual symphony of monotony was interrupted by a peculiar scratching sound. It came from the direction of the window, a soft, insistent tick-tick-tick. Curiosity, a rare visitor these days, piqued my interest. I shuffled over, the floorboards groaning under my weight, and peered out. A small, translucent moth clung to the pane, its wings catching the moonlight in a way that made them seem almost iridescent. It tapped its delicate legs against the glass, seemingly determined to break through the barrier that separated it from my world.

I fumbled for the latch, the rusty mechanism groaning in protest as I finally opened the window. The moth, hesitant for a moment, fluttered in, its wings whispering against the ageing wall. It danced around the room, a flurry of gossamer wings, defying the stale air with its frenetic energy. It dipped and twirled, seemingly oblivious to everything but the strange pull of the combined light sources—the bulb above, the moonbeam, the teapot's reflection, and the echo in my eyes.

And then, as if by some unseen cue, it landed. Not on the chipped teapot, nor on the worn Dumas, but on the centre of my palm. It rested there, its tiny body pulsing with an otherworldly light. The world around me seemed to shift, the familiar contours of my room rippling like water disturbed by a stone. The stale air shimmered, infused with an impossible fragrance—a symphony of moonlight and wildflowers.

As soon as it had landed, the moth lifted from my hand and fluttered back towards the window. It paused for a beat, its iridescent beat catching the moonlight one last time, before disappearing into the night.

I stood there, bathed in the afterglow of the ordinary.

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“What should I say? How should I say it? It is such a simple thing.

Five layers of moonlight, each layer unaware of the other.”

– Sarveshwar Dayal Saxena (translated from Hindi)