For her, work was singing and dancing with children, pleading with men in their sober moments to send their children to school and convincing women that they were not challenging their husbands if they worked to earn a second income or went to school with their children.
Her work was persuading the swaying man on top of the building he was helping build, to climb down. She understood his ego was hurt when his child was beginning to read and write, while he, the master of the house, remained illiterate. She told him his family would die without him. She made his child and wife yell from eight floors down that they would never disobey him. She apologized for not seeking his permission before enrolling his child at the little school on the construction site. He let them help him down.
Early next morning, before he left his 10X10 tin shed for work, she was there forcing him to look her in the eye. The low of shame had replaced the high of the drink. She made no accusations; offered no apology. Her hands around his son sitting on her lap, she asked the father to choose. The boy could grow up to carry bricks and cement bags or study and hope to escape. And even support his parents one day, she added softly. The father broke down; she did not. At least not until the mother hugged her and thanked her through her tears and the boy looked up at them both in confusion.
Then she rushed back to her own house, to prepare lunch for her own son to carry to school.
When you invited me to participate in the Messier Marathon Mania, I did not understand why. I am not into marathons, messy or clean, and neither of us is maniacal. Then you explained that “mania” was just a marketing appendage to the real thing—Messier Marathon.
If Wikipedia were to educate me before I accepted your invitation, I might have declined the opportunity to find as many objects as possible during one night from the catalogue compiled by French astronomer Charles Messier. Me? Astronomy? No way!
My knees creaked at the idea of staying up from 5.30 p.m. to 5.30 a.m. in the wilderness where the temperature was sure to plummet to sweater-plus-jacket depths. All that suffering just to spot 100 celestial objects? I shut my instincts up and said yes!
And, my dear Sarang, I am glad I did. Because your telescope showed me more than those objects.
When that one faint star turned out to be a collection of thousands of brilliant stars, I wondered about all the assumptions I make based on what I think I see.
When I looked at two galaxies captured within a lens barely bigger than a single eye, I wondered about all that is within me beyond the physical.
That coat hanger arrangement could have been shells or pebbles on any beach here. Except that it is a “very entertaining asterism in the Sagitta constellation,” as you put it. Where is that beach? Who is that child?