The alarm rang at 4:30.
I turned it off quickly. Happy and Arash were still asleep. I made wudu in the dark. The tap water was cold. My hands shook a little.
I sat on the prayer mat. Outside, Dhaka was quiet. That hour before the city remembers it’s a city.
I started praying. My mind wandered. It always does at this hour.
Where do we come from?
Not a religious question. Something else. I looked at my hands in the dim light. These hands. This body. Where was all this before it was me?
I finished praying but didn’t get up.
The sky was turning grey at the edges.
When Amma died, I cried for her. For us. For Arash losing his grandmother. But sitting here now, something else came. She used to look at the moon and say nothing. Just look. Whatever she saw in that moon, no one else saw it. Not exactly like that.
Now no one ever will.
“Baba?”
I turned. Arash stood in the doorway. Rubbing his eyes.
“Why are you up?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Come sit.”
He walked over. Sat beside me on the prayer mat. We watched the window together.
“What were you thinking about?”
“Stars.”
“Stars?”
“Where we come from.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then: “We learned in school that we’re made from stars. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“So my hand is made of stars?”
“Yes.”
He looked at his hand. Turned it over. Looked at the palm, then the back.
“That’s strange.”
“It is.”
“But also…” He didn’t finish.
“Also what?”
“I don’t know. Makes me feel like I should do something important.”
I didn’t say anything.
The call to prayer started from the mosque down the street. Then another mosque. Then another. The city waking up in layers.
“Baba, if stars don’t think, how do we think?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
He seemed satisfied with this. We sat in silence.
Happy came out of the bedroom. Saw us sitting together.
“What are you two doing?”
“Talking about stars,” Arash said.
“At 5 AM?”
“Best time for star talk.”
She smiled. Went to the kitchen. Came back with three cups of chai. Sat with us.
Steam rose from the cups. The sky was lighter now.
“So what did you decide?” she asked. “About the stars?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing?”
“We don’t know anything.”
She laughed softly. Sipped her chai.
Arash was staring at his cup now. “If I’m made of stars, and this cup is made of… what’s a cup made of?”
“Clay. Sand. Fire.”
“So the star part of me is holding the sand part of the cup?”
“I suppose.”
“Huh.”
That was all he said. Huh.
Later, I walked him to school. The streets were filling up. Rickshaws, CNGs, buses. Everyone going somewhere.
“Baba.”
“Yes?”
“Is the rickshaw puller made of stars too?”
“Yes.”
“And that woman?”
“Yes.”
“And that dog?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. Kept walking.
At the school gate, he turned to me. His backpack was too big for him. He looked small.
“Thanks for the star talk.”
“Anytime.”
He ran off. I watched him go. He joined his friends. They were laughing about something. I couldn’t hear what.
I walked home slowly.
That evening, I found Happy on the balcony.
“You’ve been quiet all day,” she said.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything.”
She didn’t ask more. We stood together. The evening call to prayer started.
“Happy.”
“Hmm?”
“When Amma looked at the moon, what do you think she saw?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
A crow landed on the railing. Looked at us. Flew away.
“Maybe she saw the same thing we see,” Happy said. “Just differently.”
“Maybe.”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know.”
We stood there until it got dark.
At dinner, Arash was telling us about school. Someone had brought a lizard to class. The teacher screamed. Everyone laughed.
He talked with his mouth full. Happy told him not to.
“Baba, do lizards think?”
“Probably. Not like us.”
“What do they think about?”
“Food. Danger. Warm places.”
“That’s sad.”
“Why?”
“They never think about stars.”
I looked at him. Sauce on his chin. Curious eyes.
“No,” I said. “They don’t.”
He went back to eating.
Before bed, I checked on him. He was already asleep. Sprawled across the bed. One arm hanging off the edge.
I stood in the doorway. Watched him breathe.
Where did he come from? Not just stars. Not just us. There was something else there. Something I couldn’t name.
I went back to the bedroom. Happy was reading.
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I lay down. Stared at the ceiling.
“Happy.”
“Hmm?”
“Do you ever feel strange? Being here?”
“Here where?”
“Here. Alive. In a body.”
She put her book down. Looked at me.
“Sometimes. In the morning, before I’m fully awake. I don’t know who I am for a moment.”
“And then?”
“Then I remember.”
“Do you like remembering?”
She thought about it. “Most days.”
I nodded. That was fair.
She turned off the lamp. The room went dark.
“Go to sleep,” she said.
“Okay.”
But I didn’t sleep. Not right away.
I listened to the city outside. Horns. Voices. Dogs. Someone was playing music somewhere far away.
All these sounds. All these people. All of them made of something old. Something that was here before any of us.
What does that mean?
I don’t know.
I lay there for a long time.
Eventually, I slept.
I dreamed about Amma. She was looking at the moon. I stood beside her.
“What do you see?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. She just looked.
I looked too.
The moon was very bright.
When I woke up, I couldn’t remember what it looked like.
Just that it was there. And we were looking.
Both of us.
Together.
