To Moon, With Love

A year ago today, as the entire nation sat glued to their television set to watch our effort to shoot for the moon, I plugged in my earphones, tuned in Mr. Sinatra, and looked at the real thing. I'll let you in on a little secret: my Nandanwan is to be on our moon. 

In my naivety, I never thought others might have the same dream.

Never thought, I'd fear it turning into a nightmare.

Here's something I couldn't share a year ago, but, for some reason, I can today.

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Dear Moon,

Fly Me to the Moon is crooning in my ears, a paradox to the actual thoughts running around in my head. Everyone was boasting India’s successful flight towards you today. After the scientists found traces of water on your surface, they have been like dogs behind a bone – hounding and sniffing for a new piece to bite and finish. I am still debating whether I should celebrate or mourn, though this ironic song choice seems to be pushing me more towards the latter.

Buddha, the enlightened one, once said about love – if you like a flower, you’ll pluck it out to keep with you. But if you love it, you’ll water it daily. Nobody ever understands my fascination with just staring at you. (Though there are enough people who love you, I guess, because there is indeed a word for your lovers – selenophiles, they call us.) And I don’t blame anyone for not understanding –my own fascination with you started with a doubt. I used to think, “Why are you a muse to all these great poets and storytellers? You – a white rock with a rabbit-shaped flaw in it? Who shines on borrowed light?” I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure it out. Still can’t. And I guess, after a while, I just fell in love with your mystery. For me, you are a testament that imperfection is beautiful.

Now, humans are achieving great feats in the name of science and development. They dreamed and dared to reach you – and they have. Their current goal is to uncover your secrets, find out if you are habitable, if we can turn you into a home. And it terrifies me to my bones. I want to kick and scream and howl at you, tell you to hide all traces of life on you. Because we, humans, are destructive. Wherever we go, death and devastation follow us. We have destroyed this beautiful, beautiful planet to the brink of extinction, and now in a desperate attempt of a dying breed, we are flailing to reach out to places we can call home. And as much as I wish and long for you to be exactly that, I don’t wish for my kind to ruin you with our touch. I don’t want the next generations to look down at this green and blue planet, turned grey and red, and think “I can’t believe our ancestors lived there.” I don’t want you to suffer through the curse of humanity, as Earth did.

Sinatra is crooning to an end. I wonder what he would think, if he realized that he could actually fly to the moon, now.

Yours,

One among the many, lover.