Luna Dei

I started awake at the sound of my phone ringing. I groaned at the faint recollection of switching it off silent last night. What time what was it? Two in the morning? I answered the phone.

“Hello,” I grumbled.

“Raman! Thank god you’re up. Listen –”

I imagined rolling my eyes behind the eyelids. It was typical of my little brother to call me at absurd times of the day with his highly inappropriate requests, asking for favors that always asked too much of me. I called him little brother, but he was just five years younger, thirty now. He needed to start acting like it.

“I really need my sleep, you know that, Pratham.”

“I know, I know. But you know I wouldn’t call you if it weren’t important.”

False.

“I’m waiting,” I said, with an obvious tone of impatience.

Silence.

“Pratham, I’m going back to sleep.” I started to cut the call.

“Don’t look up, Raman!”

I stopped. What?

“What?”

“Don’t look up.”

I look up. The fan rotates in a silent, hypnotizing motion. When did I last clean the blades? They were starting to get dusty. “What’s up?”

“The moon.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No! I mean it! Don’t look at the moon, Raman.”

I sigh. “Hold on.”

I shook off my sleep and sat up, rubbing my eyes. Tossing the sheets off my legs, I switched on the bedside lamp. I reached for my glasses and put them on. I was talking on the phone, what did I need my glasses for? It was a power move. It helped me focus. It intimidated my clients. It impressed my clients. 

Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I poured myself a glass of water and said, “Pratham.”

“Yes! Did you listen to what I said? Don’t look-”

“Have you been drinking again?”

He stopped abruptly. “No?”

I took a sip of water. “How much did you drink last night?”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I am listening to you. Just not to what you’re saying. Two very different things Pratham.”

“I just called to help you. I don’t need your help.”

“Fine. Help me.”

“Don’t look at the moon, please. Just for tonight. Don’t believe anyone else. I have seen people-”

This was new. Did our parents know about this? Did the doctor know?”

I downed the water. “Look, Pratham.”

The line went silent. I called back a couple of times.

The number you are calling is switched off. Please try…

Typical of him, shutting me off. He’d had a tough time in his twenties, getting into the wrong company multiple times. In March 2034, after the massive militant religious cult was exposed by the journalists, the religion had crumbled as millions of people started converting or switching to atheism in a historical cascading effect. Immediately after, multiple other religions started cropping up, trying to establish dominance. Pratham got involved with one religious group after the other, and they all dissolved in a couple of months. It left him and so many other people stranded in a faithless existence for years, many losing their wits. I thought the country had finally starting to get used to a world without religion after six years.

I wondered what his therapist would say about this new moon thing. Did he even go to therapist anymore? I didn’t know. I took off my glasses and switched off the bedside lamp. I would deal with this tomorrow.

What now? I certainly couldn’t go back to sleep right away. I scrambled for the bottle of pills under my pillow and popped two into my mouth. Three? I couldn’t tell. I turned my phone on and waited for the auto brightness to adjust. A little social media before the pills kicked in couldn’t hurt. Not more than the pills anyway.

Suddenly, a news alert with the word ‘moon’ caught my eyes. I wasn’t much for current affairs except in my business, but I tapped on it anyway. 

‘Prettiest moon in a century, scientists say.’

I frown. Strange headline. I scrolled through other headlines.

‘NASA confirms supernatural beauty of the moon’

‘Breathtaking moon starts poetry revolution overnight.’

‘Van Gogh sent moon, say conspiracy theorists.’

I frowned. Had I slept through all this? It seemed surreal, such ado about the moon. And what was Pratham saying about the moon? It was probably one of his mad ravings, to put it crudely, but could it have been triggered by this?

A notification alert on my phone. I shook my head. This way I’d never get any sleep. I would check my phone again next morning, I decided.

But suddenly, my phone chirped again. And again. And again. And again, and again, and again.

The phone dropped out of my hand and continued to chirp, dancing on the floor. I stared at it, not wanting to admit to myself how much it unnerved me, but not being able to mute the thumping in my chest. Sitting on my bed in the dark room, the light from the phone looked spectral. I steeled my nerves and reached for my still vibrating phone and looked at the screen.

It was filled with messages from all kinds of social media – Instagram, Facebook, Whatsapp. Even SMS and Email notifications. From my friends, from my parents, from my colleagues. From acquaintances I had not spoken to in years. From that guy I fancied at my gym.

I started reading.

My eyes widened as I went through the messages. Because they all seemed to say the same thing.

‘Look at the moon.’

‘The moon looks so pretty tonight, Raman.’

‘Raman, look up!’

‘This is the prettiest moon I have ever seen.’

‘The night sky looks gorgeous tonight.’

‘Look at the moon ‘

‘Look at the moon.’

‘Look at the moon.’

I shut my eyes. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing on my terrace, fifteen stories above ground level, leaning against the parapet. I didn’t remember how I got there, but I was still in my night clothes, barefoot. I knew it wasn’t possible, but I could have sworn that I still heard my phone buzzing downstairs. As I wriggled my toes against the mossy concrete I hadn’t set foot on in years, I realized that I was standing underneath the bare sky.

The moon. 

What was it all about? I mean, sure, the moon was beautiful and all, but how pretty could it be? How different could it be? But everyone was saying it was, so it must be. I was just about to look up when a frantic voice rang in my ears.

Don’t look at the moon!

Why had Pratham seemed so scared? Sure, he was depressed, probably drinking again, but he had never in the last six years called me of his own accord. He had too much of an ego. His desperate, pleading voice was different. It was something I had never heard before. Why shouldn’t I look up at the moon? What was the big deal? Heck, NASA would agree!

I pushed Pratham to the back of my mind and resolved to deal with him the next day. For now, I would enjoy this apparent lunar masterpiece everyone was talking about. The moon seemed to nudge me playfully.

Look at me, Raman. I’m beautiful.

Slowly, I looked up. The moon was perfectly overhead. I stared at it for a while. A perfect circle, it glistened against the prussian blue sky. I could feel the moonlight making everything around me beautiful, peaceful. I couldn’t tell why, but it was true; this moon felt different. It felt prettier than any other moon I had ever seen. I sighed as the moon filled up my lungs, filled up my veins with its moonlight. It took control of me; the moon was my soul, my mind. My brain was clear of any reservations I had had. I didn’t remember… anything. There was something that had been bothering me, but I didn’t remember it anymore. The moon was too beautiful.

I gazed at the moon, mesmerized, for a good thirty minutes. I stood there, my neck craned up, just staring. My eyes glazed, but I don’t think I blinked.

Finally, smiling, I looked away from the moon. I rested my hands against the parapet, still smiling, and looked over.

And then I jumped.

Hush

I woke up at half past five in the evening to what seemed like the hundredth notification alert on my phone. My work had kept me up all night like it usually did, and I had gone to bed around ten in the morning. Gone to ­bed, mind you. Not to sleep. That was at least forty-five minutes later. Today’s a Sunday, I remember – the only reason I’d gotten any sleep at all.

As I lay absolutely still on my bed trying to decide whether I should finally get up or not, my phone chirped again. Chirped; a melancholy compensation for the actual sounds that I always ended up sleeping through. Annoyed, I creaked to one side from my usual sarcophagal position as my hand scrambled for my phone under my pillow. It blinked on the moment the camera caught a glance of my face. How it recognizes my face even when I look like a sleep deprived raccoon, I don’t know. I squinted as the screen came into focus.

158 unread notifications.

I blinked and checked again. The phone chirped in my hand and the slight tremor (of the phone? Of my hand?) caused it to fall from my limp hand. I winced and scrambled upright using my still-weak arms. I swung down my legs and picked up the device lying face-down on the carpet.

159 unread notifications.

I shook my head, confused. So many notifications, all from different apps – Instagram, Facebook, Whatsapp, Twitter. Some messages from the anonymous opponents I play scrabble with. And quite a few news alerts from Google. I pushed myself up to my feet and tossed my phone aside. It was funny, I realized, how shocked I was to wake up to a lot of texts from my friends. Me with a social life wasn’t that unbelievable, was it? It was probably nothing. Maybe just a new viral video that everyone was forwarding to everyone. And World Scrabble Day or something, that would explain the notifications from Google too. I resolved to check them at peace while having breakfast. Lunch.  

I washed up quickly, flashed a disdainful glance at my unmade bed and floated over to the kitchen. It was starting to get dark outside, but not dark enough that I had to switch on the lights. I pulled out last night’s half eaten sandwich from the fridge and heated it up. Finally, after taking a couple of bites to silence the rumbling in my stomach, I started reading the notifications on my phone.

12 missed calls from my mom. A large number, but not new.

A text from my dad.

Have you read the news today? Don’t look up.

What is it with Indian fathers and strange news? I sigh and quickly reply with a ‘hm’.

A text from my colleague, Naresh. No way he was dumping his work on me on a Sunday again.

best way 2 avoid the moon is not 2 luk up. idk how long i can last tho, lol.

I frown. Had he been drunk? I check the next ones. Texts from a bunch of my friends.

‘This moon thing is crazy yo. Imma just stay inside all day.’

‘Yeah, even the govt told us not to look. This is legit.’

‘Don’t look, Raman. I know you’ll wanna. But don’t.’

‘Check the news, man. What do you think about all this?’

As I read the messages, my confusion grew as I struggled to understand what was happening. I switched over to the news and read a couple of headlines;

‘DRDO, NASA warn civilians not to look at the moon for one night.’

‘This is a life or death situation, says official.’

‘Looking at the moon illegal as of 8^th March, 2025, declares centre.’

I scroll through all the notifications, trying to make sense of what I was reading. Don’t look at the moon? What kind of absurd order was that? And yet the order came from the government and reputable agencies. Was this all a huge prank?

But a few more minutes of scrolling told me this was all real. There was a very real threat, literally looming right above us. And we weren’t allowed to look at it. It didn’t make sense, and none of the articles gave any insight into why this was happening. But it all seemed very scary.

I looked at the clock. 6:30. If it wasn’t cloudy, then the moon would be visible by now. Was I really going to obey these orders? My friends and family, my colleagues, even my boss – they all seemed to be very scared, and they were very serious about abiding by this regulation. Surely I could keep my eyes on the ground and stay inside for half a day?

I glanced at the window and realized that it was eerily silent outside. The neighbors weren’t blasting music from their speakers today. The street lights were off. The neighborhood seemed to be in sync with the ominous climate. I took a couple of deep breaths and took a few moments to realign myself.

Okay. Okay. Don’t look at the moon because the government said so. Can’t hurt. And surely I will know tomorrow what this was all about. It all would make sense – some astronomical anomaly, some chemical in the air that spread from looking at the moon? Unheard of, but we’ve been through worse, haven’t we?

I sighed and stuck the sandwich back in the refrigerator. Maybe I would read a book. Could I switch on a light? Nothing said I couldn’t, but the thought filled me with a strange fear. What if I mistake the moon for the glare of a bulb? It didn’t make sense, but… I kept all the lights switched off, drew all the curtains and parked myself on my sofa. Could moonlight hurt me? What about reflections? Didn’t I see everything outside because of the light reflecting off the objects? Was I already infected?

My stream of consciousness was cut off by an unfamiliar tune. I looked at the buzzing phone in my hand, marveling at how rarely I kept my phone off silent. Why was my brother calling?

I answered, “Hello?”

After a few seconds of silence I heard the strangely hushed voice of my brother. “Raman?”

“What’s up?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but why– ”

“Mom said you weren’t picking up calls, so I wondered… Have you read the news?”

“Yeah I did. Can you believe it? I hope it isn’t another pandemic,” I joked. Too soon?

A few seconds of silence. Then my brother said something that caught me off guard.

“Look at the moon, Raman.”

It was not just what he said. It was the tone, the seriousness, paired with the hushed volume that made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I shifted on my sofa.

“What?”

“Look at the moon,” he repeated. “You have to.”

“Are you crazy? Have you read the news? This isn’t a joke, Pratham. This is serious.”

“I know how serious this is. You know I don’t joke.”

He was right. He was five years elder to me, and a man of utmost seriousness. It was probably why we didn’t get along that well, but I usually trusted his judgment blindly.

“Tell me why, Pratham. Why should I look? Wait… did you look?”

My voice was unnaturally shrill.

“Yes, Raman! And I-”

The line went silent.

I furiously dialed his number again and held the phone to my ear.

The number you are calling is currently switched off. Please try again…

Maybe his phone didn’t have much charge? I tried calling his landline. It rang off.

I set my phone down and raised my thumb to my lips and chewed at the nail furiously. I could hear my brother chiding me. I replayed the conversation we had just had over and over again in my mind. Did I trust my brother? And with a ‘life or death situation’? Maybe it was all a prank? My birthday was a month away, but maybe this was a surprise joke? Anyway, surely many people had already looked at the moon right? They possibly couldn’t stop the whole world from looking, could they?

Could they?

Five minutes later, I found myself on my rooftop, my eyes fixed on my feet. It was silent; there was absolutely no wind. I could feel the moon right above me, nudging me. Look. Look, Raman. I look beautiful tonight.

“Pratham, you asshole,” I murmured right before looking up. “This better be worth it.”

And I looked up.

I stared at the moon for a while. I waited for a pang of pain in my eyes. It took a minute for my eyes to tunnel in on the moon. And it looked… normal.

It was almost a full moon. My mind searched for facts about the lunar cycle to draw conclusions upon, but drew a blank.

The night sky was pretty tonight. Cloudless, it stretched across my vision like a navy blue canvas. The moon was almost full, except for that one edge, where –

My eyes widened. I blinked a couple of times. I rubbed my eyes. I pinched myself. But I was sure of what I had seen.

The little part of the moon that was dark, it had… folded. I could see the creases on the white of the moon and I could see that it had folded like a piece of circular cloth whose stitches had ripped. And I realized why the sky looked like a stretched canvas.

                                                                                                ***

I went downstairs. And I sat down on the sofa.

My phone rang and I answered to hear Pratham’s frantic voice on the other end.

“Did you see it? Did you see the moon, Raman?”

I sat unmoving for a while. Then I pushed the words out of my throat.

“No. I did not see the moon. I don’t think you’re supposed to, either. The government has its reasons, I’m sure.”

“No, Raman! I’ll tell you what I saw! I-”

“Go to sleep, Pratham. You don’t know what you saw.”

I switched off my phone. And I went to bed.

Story of a Hemophilia Survivor

Hi. My name is Kunal, and I suffer from severe hemophilia.

For those of my readers who don’t know, hemophilia is a rare, typically genetic blood disorder in which the blood does not clot normally, a process needed to stop bleeding.

It is a scary disease to live with, I won’t lie. It basically means that I live in constant fear. It usually isn’t so bad for small cuts, but I have to move around very carefully and always be wary of my surroundings.

My parents had a lot of trouble conceiving, I was told. After trying for years and seeking all kinds of medical help, they finally tried some special procedure, very expensive, that worked. But this procedure came at a cost, and this condition, which may have been suppressed or recessive before, became aggressive in my genes. This gave me the disease that could kill me.

I have a lot of pain in my joints very often although I have strong, hard bones and it becomes tough to function. In these twelve years of my life I have had eight surgeries already. Whenever any joint or part of my body starts to hurt too much, I have been whisked off to the operating table. It’s unlike the regular hospitals my friends go to, special for hemophilia patients, I suppose. It’s very high-tech and has a lot of cool gadgets lying around, but no one lets me play with them. I see other children there too, but there are so many that I get confused. Sometimes I think it’s the same kid with a different hair colour or even stranger – a different set of parents! Ha-ha.

It’s always that same doctor who helped my parents with conception, and she’s very nice. In all these years, she hasn’t aged a bit and I’m sure she will be our family physician forever. She always operates on me. I don’t know how these operations work, but I do always come back feeling much better, good as new. Until next time, that is.

I first found out that I have this disease when my parents told me. I was pretty young, and I guess I had just barely started speaking. But I remember because they still keep saying the same things to me. Like I don’t understand!

They throw a bunch of medical terms at me that I barely understand. Luckily, I’ve never had nosebleeds or any of the other symptoms yet, which is funny since my case is severe. But I have always been told, ‘Be careful, don’t get cut.’

What they mean is I can’t afford to get a deep cut. I cannot get a deep cut, because then it will never stop bleeding and I will die. And I cannot tell anyone about my disease because they will try to hurt me.

I try to stay away from sharp objects all the time and my parents act very jittery when I get in the vicinity of one. I don’t know why. From all the Google research I’ve done, it can’t be that scary, especially if you have a hospital nearby, but my parents act like I’ll fragile and I’ll break or something.

I have managed to stay safe and not get any deep cuts, except once. I was playing in my room, I remember, when I knocked down a glass bottle and it shattered at my feet. I remember a huge shard sticking out of my calf. I think I fainted before the blood came out, because I don’t remember much of what happened after.

When I was being operated on again, under heavy sedation, I remember having a funny dream, probably because of all the drugs in my system. It was a dream about the same day, and the bottle breaking, and me getting cut again. But in the dream, I reached down and pulled out the glass shard. It was a dream, so I didn’t feel any pain. I bent over and looked deep into my cut, out of plain curiosity, waiting for the blood to gush out. But I didn’t see any blood. It may have been because I wasn’t wearing my glasses. I grasped by calf muscles with my fingers and tried to get a closer look and I saw… sparking. And in the light of the sparks I saw wires – red, green and blue, winding down my shiny bone. And then I remember my parents rushing in at the sound of the crashing bottle, screaming, ‘Reset! Reset!’

And then the dream ended.

Anyway, I’m digressing. The doctor fixed me up, but she warned me that she wouldn’t be able to do it again. She also told me that if I ever do get cut, I should close my eyes and not try to get a better look at it because the strain causes more blood to rush out. And I could die. Oh, and after that operation, I didn’t need glasses anymore! She’d fixed my eyes too. She’s a very good doctor.

I have been very careful since then and have never told anyone about my disease. But this is my story and I pray for all the other people with hemophilia in the world, who have all the symptoms and don’t have such a good doctor to fix them up. I hope you pray for them too and don’t treat us differently, because we’re already trying our best to be normal people. Thank you.

Oh, and I find it really hard to log into my Gmail account because I can never enter the captcha. So pray for that too! Ha-ha!