Star Daughter(13)
In a dream, at least, Sheetal could have what she wanted.
So she followed the melody and let her heart reach out for Dev’s.
She could see the rhythmic throb of the blood that brought life-giving oxygen to Dev’s cells, could sense the buried river of his recollections and dreams. Her own blood turned to music. Silver fire slipped through her veins as she hummed, flowing from her heart into Dev’s like a bridge between them.
Images began to form along the bridge, first vague as unspun cotton, then finer, more detailed, the more she sang, a sketch gaining depth and dimension. Then she saw six-year-old Dev among the rest of his family, their plastic plates laden with party food: buttery pulao, its white grains fluffy and flecked with carrots and peas; puri, fried to golden perfection; lightly fried bhajia, spicy and stuffed with potato and onion. Dev chatted happily with the other kids. Even at that age, Sheetal thought, he was a charmer.
An old man started speaking, and everyone else fell quiet. One of the kids standing with Dev, a curly-haired boy about nine or ten, looked excited, as if he’d heard this story before. “Once there was a star . . .”
The scene changed, taking Sheetal and her song with it.
Stars walked quietly among mortals, their long manes sparkling and their dark eyes agleam as they sloughed off inspiration like snowflakes. In their wake, sleeping mortal passions soon transformed into art: painters rendered masterpieces accented with gold leaf and gems, dancers refined their subtlest gestures into movements worthy of apsaras, musicians spun notes into complex compositions to be handed down for generations, and storytellers penned reams of epic verse that effortlessly blended the mundane with the mythical.
The stars never advertised their presence to the world. They merely wandered in and out of lives as they were needed, kindling and then fueling the flames of creativity.
Most artists soon forgot their astral muses as their work devoured them—if they saw the stars at all. They spent their days as if in a dream where the only truth was their work, until that work was done. Royal chefs concocted recipes; architects constructed enameled monuments to love; jewelers fashioned pieces so intricate they looked like dreams made metal. The world gleamed brighter for it all.
But occasionally an artist turned their head long enough to become infatuated with their star, making of that fixation its own kind of art, a delightful drama of yearning.
And occasionally a star would forget their place and respond to that hunger, with glances leading to caresses and secret trysts, until silver fire ignited between muse and artist.
Yet with time, these mortals began to wither, consumed from the inside out.
They ceased to eat, to bathe, to sleep, even to work. Their faces grew skeletal, their hair lank before it fell out, and they lay in shadow chanting their lover’s name until the last trace of air left their bodies.
The stars burned their very essence away.
Rumors began to spread, both on Earth and in the heavens. The sidereal court convened and punished those stars who had dallied with humans, removing any children of these unions until they were old enough to purge their mortal blood. “Mortals cannot bear such prolonged exposure to our inspiration and our light,” came the verdict, delivered by an imposing older couple on their twin thrones, “and to join with them in this way is an abomination.”
Not long after, a star who in human years might have been twenty or twenty-one and whose beauty was as luminous as her light sought out her mortal lover. As they embraced, her long silver tresses fell around them in a shimmering canopy. Though they had only recently begun their affair, she had to end it, she explained. Her expression entreated him to understand. “If I leave now, you might still be safe.”
The man, youthful and dressed in a kurta pajama stained with rich pigments, caught her by the wrist. “You can’t leave. What do I have without you?”
“Do not be foolish,” chastised the star. She gestured to his paintings. “You have your family and your friends and your art. I have given you inspiration, nothing more.”
“Look at you,” he said. “You’re magic. Where am I going to find that again?”
The star touched his cheek. “We still have tonight. Let us make the most of it.”
They nestled together all that night, the man whispering stories to the star. She had dampened her radiance, so they were lit only by the oil lamps scattered around the windows.
“Do you truly have to go?” the man asked as day began to break.
“Yes,” said the star through her tears. “Lord Surya’s chariot will soon drive across the sky.”
He gripped her hand. “I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
“Nor am I, but so it must be. I have given you all I can—all my light, all my love. If the court knew I was here right now . . .” Yet she held him tight.
He considered, then nodded. “One more night. Just one more. Surely you can spare that?”
The star conveyed her agreement in little kisses. Then she stood, extinguished the oil lamps, and disappeared into the dawn.
When she reappeared after sunset, her glow driving away the gloom in the man’s small house, the man took her into his arms. “Won’t you reconsider?”
The star smiled into his hair. “For your sake, I cannot.” She looked over his shoulder at the red cloth covering a large object in the center of the room. “A new piece in progress?”