Stardust in the eyes

Everybody in the neighbourhood, right down to the dhobi’s cat, wanted to be on the roof that night. Woollens were garnered, ladders requisitioned, red transparent paper pasted over torches and alarms set for a midnight tryst with stardust.

“It’s going to happen at 12.30,” said Mrs Mehta’s eight-year-old.“Scientists say that the meteor shower will peak at 2 p.m.,” said my son in superior tones. “But maybe we should be in Japan to get a better view.”

This last observation was flung casually in my direction. But my commitment to scientific inquiry certainly didn’t extend to investing in tickets to Tokyo. “Delhi will do for us, young man,” I said cheerfully. “Okay, that’s decided. We’ll get up at1.30 for Tempel-Tuttle. Now go to bed.”

By 1.30 a.m., there we were like fiddlers on the roof under the all-embracing clasp of Delhi’s night sky. Now night skies can be truly stupendous in some places, where clusters of stars hang like ripe fruit in a celestial garden, where whole constellations vie with each other to entrap you in their geometric perfection.

Delhi, however, is not one of those places. Here people go to bed content if they get to see the moon on a particularly clear night. The sky on Wednesday did not disappoint. It was like being in a gigantic soup kitchen with some 1,000 microgrammes per cubic metre lacing the air.

“Can’t see a thing,” stated the son who wanted to be in Tokyo flatly.“Don’t worry boys,” I said, conviction ebbing from my voice even as I spoke, “scientists say this is going to be a spectacular display of orange fireballs streaking across the sky.”

“Wow!” said Mrs Mehta’s 8-year-old, staring up at the sky. “Look, aunty,” he screamed,“a fireball.”

Ourheads jerked back in unison.“That,” said my son who wanted to be in Tokyo, “is an aeroplane.” He added darkly, “Maybe an enemy aeroplane wanting to bomb us.”

By now it was getting to be 2 a.m., and nothing stirred in the sky. It was a bit like searching for tigers in Rantambore National Park last winter. We knew they were there, but we just couldn’t set our eyes on them.

Suddenly, a small streak of light came in my field of vision. “Look, look,” I chimed, hoping to add some son et lumiere to the proceedings.“What’s so great?” said my son, “That’s just a shooting star. We saw hundreds of them in Ranikhet last May hundreds.”

“Look to the eastern horizon,” I said, still determined that the show goes on. “That’s where the scientists say the shower will take place.”

“Yes, that’s why the Japanese get the best view,” added my son, pointedly.The sky continued to loom over our heads like a heavy awning. I decided to bring some education in.“This was what Galileo did. And Herschel. They saton their roofs for hours and calculated the speed of the stars. That’s scientific temper for you.”

“Big deal,” said my son, his scientific temper clearly frayed. It was 2.45 now, the cold was seeping in and lack of sleep was making us groggy.My thoughts drifted to more terrestrial matters, like the morning school bus and the milkman. “Should we go now?” I suggested hopefully.

“Noooo, aunty, I want to take some meteors in a matchbox to school like that Calcutta man,” cried Mrs Mehta’s 8-year-old.

My son watched the proceedings with a smirk.“You took us to the planetarium to see Hale-Bopp last time and all we got to see was some distant speck,” he said, accusingly. By now, I was actually wishing that he was in Tokyo.At that precise moment, some kindly soul in the neighbourhood decided to nudge Tempel-Tuttle a bit by sending a rocket into the sky. It whistled through the November air and burst into a gorgeous bouquet of colours.

“Aunty, aunty, see, see,” said Mrs Mehta’s eight-year-old,clapping his hands in delight. If he was satisfied, so was I. It meant that I could now legitimately get the boys back into bed.

Scientists now promise that there will be more heavenly fireworks same time, next year. More spectacular, more stupendous, than ever before. I’m planning to sleep right through that show. One should be fooled by the celestial forces, and their interpreters on earth, only once in a lifetime.