Beloved of the Moon

I was born under a golden moon, lying low in the evening sky hiding behind the banyan trees. Cloud disappeared and moon had nowhere else to take cover.

Villagers said that moon couldn’t bear to light my face and expose me to the waiting world. But this isn’t true. Mother said that no one controls everything, even moon, and her delicate, mischievous beams escaped enough for her to make out my crumpled form in the gloaming. Moon fell like narcissus and claimed me as her own.

Mother named me Chandrakanta and she loved me too. She crushed me against her breast often, and I still remember her smell: crushed almonds, sweet chilli pepper and cardamom pods. She loved me so. She hid me from the world of wide-awake, astonished eyes. She protected me from the glare. We walked out at night with moon and they were my only friends.

When moon was fat we danced until our breath came quick and low, we licked dew from grass and eat fruit from the tamarind to feed our delight. When moon was shy we stumbled and strained, crushing neem-pods underfoot, their tangy trail leading us home. At dawn we sat under the Peepal tree and bid moon adieu.

Everything changed during the retreating monsoon of my fourteenth year. Mother died and I was cast adrift in sorrow and rain. No one from the village would take me in and I was left to scavenge among the rubbish. I knew I must travel to the city if I was to survive. Mother had told of its wonders and its ills.

And it was there, scratching an existence like a feral cat, that I met Sister Joy. She prowled the slums searching for souls to save. It was night-time. She screamed when I turned but quickly took me to her bosom, as my mother had done before me. Sister Joy smelt of pine and pressed sheets. The orphanage was kind but I was unhappy. I missed moon and my mother. I was a nocturnal creature forced to endure the warmth of the sun and sleep when my companion shone. Sister Joy assumed my melancholy was because of my face and comforted me:

“Don’t fret, little Chandrakanta. A doctor is coming. A clever medicine man who will make you like others.”

I said, “That’s nice,” because I did not know what else to say but in truth I didn’t want to be like others, I wanted to be like me.

The doctor came and took me far, far away. I was afraid I might never see moon again. His family wrapped me in their compassion and did not stare or recoil from me. But their country was shrouded in a gloomy radiance, neither light nor dark, an everlasting shadow, and for seven nights I stalked the evening sky looking for moon.

On the eighth night I awoke from a fitful sleep with a start. A silvery blush hovered over my bed and though I didn’t recognise her new robes I knew in an instant that moon had returned.

I raced to the glass and there she was. Proud and high, sharp round the edges and soft in the middle, she smiled at me. I grinned back and waved, threw open the window, shut my eyes and felt her kiss my shadowy cheeks. And out into her embrace I went.

I spent the days sleeping or wandering through the many rooms of the doctor’s house, touching the many things that adorned the floors, walls, windows, doors and ceilings. I watched television and a teacher came with books and a stern voice. From time to time I was taken to hospital where earnest men studied my face. It was all strange and marvellous and familiar.

The doctor had a son, William, just a little older than me. I considered him handsome. His hair was so blonde it was almost white, it blended with his chalky skin so that it was difficult to tell when hair stopped and forehead began. His eyes were grey/blue, his cheeks ashen. He was a pencil drawing that the artist had started to rub out and then abandoned. I longed to colour him in.

One day as I was rising William asked,
“Why do you sleep all the time? Are you depressed?”
We were alone.

“On the contrary, I am very happy here.”

And then the strangest thing happened. I told him of my night time exploits with moon. And he understood and asked if he could join me.

And so our secret passion began. As the weeks passed it eclipsed yearning for adventure and moonlight. He told me I was beautiful in moon’s glow and when he brushed his hands over my wide, flat face and kissed my hairy cheek I knew him to be true. His touch was raw silk, his taste coriander and smoke. Sharp, unsoiled and overwhelming.

When moon shone bright he read to me and made me laugh. Milligan, Lear and Milne were my favourites. We made creatures with our shadows and then watched as two became one. We fed our hunger during the dark hours and like vampires shied away from the day.

When we told the good doctor and his wife of our love they were horrified. They whispered behind heavy doors.

“Even after the operations she will never be a beauty,”

“You will always be objects of repulsion and fascination,”

“Pitiful.”

I was taken away.

Many, many moons later I returned to the doctor’s house. I was now a full grown woman and though not lovely my features were more regular and my hairy growth had been removed. William was away, travelling abroad they said, so I returned to the city and my job as a night watch.

The building I guarded faced a municipal park and during my breaks I wandered among the lavender and litter, though I no longer waltzed with moon.

One evening it was so icy that I stayed indoors, gazing at the park from a perch on the sixth floor. Leaning against the trunk of an oak, silhouetted again moon, was a weeping figure. I raced into the wilderness, calling William’s name. We fell into each other’s mouths and as we kissed we ran fingertips through features.

Instead of smooth fleshiness I found deep ravines and craters, and when he turned to face moon I saw a map of scarlet scratches, cuts and buried pain.

For every cut of the surgeon’s knife against my flesh William had gauged into his fair flesh, with razorblade, pencil, and fork.

“They said that you had died in your quest to be fair.”

“No, no, my love. I am not fair but I am here.”

And we dived into each other, never to be seen again, aside by the light of the moon.
______________________

'And hand in hand
At the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon
They danced by the light of the moon.’

from The Owl and the Pussycat by Edward Lear