To the neighbors who have moved in across the street:

If I were a more poetic or patient person, I would phrase this differently. There would be a long, elaborate prologue. I would take my sweet time getting to the point. But as it is, I cannot find an alternative way to put this. Please keep the lights off at night.

If I were more selfless, I would tell you how your extravagant lights harm the ecosystem of our street. “Ecosystem of our street, ha!” you’d laugh. But then you haven’t lived here long enough to become acquainted with the sparrows that nest in the lone tree standing in the vicinity of your house. Or the four stray cats that walk their set paths when the  lights go out. The crows and doves that like to disappear with the sun. The stray birds that flutter at night, restless. Your lights bother my rose hedge too. I heard it whisper to the jasmines the other day. The djinn who used to pass through our street in the dark hour has also changed his route. The pink vine of the previous owners of your house would’ve protested against your lights too. Maybe, that is why you uprooted it, detached it from the wall it had long been a companion to, continuing on to your “renovations.”

But you see, my reasons for the request are much more selfish. I simply like to look at the sky. A sky filled with stars.

When the sun goes down and all that does not wish to be seen roams free, I like to sit on my rooftop and talk to the seven sisters. I find surety in their continuing presence. I like to see if Orion still holds his bow ready. If Cassiopeia still sits on her throne. And if the Big Dipper is still asking the one question that puts to shame all others.

I grew up in Islamabad, in this very house I now reside in. The one right underneath the zenith. The ecliptic fits right over my open roof. I can tell the exact extremes it shifts to, on Winter and Summer solstices. I have seen the celestial bodies align and eclipse, witnessed their conjunctions and oppositions. As hyperbolic and pathetic as it sounds, I’ve cried my teenage woes to Venus and ranted to Jupiter about this cruel, cruel world. Sometimes for hours, at two in the morning.

At an age of love trysts, the only one I ever snuck out to see was Arcturus. I was always true in its light. “Don’t go out after maghrib, all sorts of creatures are out then,” my mother would reprimand. But I could never help myself. So, I learned to unlock the roof door without making a sound. The creatures were welcome to sit with me while I admired the symmetry of the Winter triangle and fell in love all over again.

I have loved the angles at which Antares meets the Scorpion’s crown. Or how Andromeda bleeds into Pegasus. How I can recognize the Gemini twins on sight, anywhere, anytime. How Capella seems to pull the rest of Auriga across the sky by sheer will. How Cygnus shapeshifts and holds comfort in all its shapes. How the hue of Mars is its biggest telltale. How the planets seamlessly glide through the stars. How Polaris is always there, marking my home. Centuries of advancement in modern navigation tools, and the sky still guides me when I’m lost.

I’ve loved the stars since long before I learned their arbitrary names. I’ve loved them since the moment I looked up, that one night in Swat, a lifetime ago, and found the sky ablaze. An incandescent sky, more lit than it was dark, more dark than it was lit. I stood there in a courtyard that belonged to strangers for longer than was appropriate, yet less than enough, till my father dragged me back to our rooms.

When I tell people I’m a stargazer, I normally get two kinds of reactions. While the younger people act politely interested, the older ones immediately delve into an account of how many more stars used to be visible back in their day. “The sky is empty now,” they say with a nostalgic smile on their face as they reminisce how everything was better when they were young.

I smile and nod politely in response, as if I do not already know. Like I haven’t watched the sky die bit by bit the past decade. Like I haven’t stood by as the ever-glowing Metro claimed more space than it requires. Like I haven’t seen the sky glow increase day by day till it swallowed the skeletal serpent, the rest of the bear, and countless other residents of the sky. Like I haven’t stood on the Margalla Hills and watched pinpricks of light, asserting human existence, dominating one side of the horizon, and the celestial lusters, confirming what we still don’t know, scattered on the other side. The former threaten to outglow the latter by sheer numbers.

The earth rises to meet the heavens, in a blasphemous attempt to match its light. I stand paralyzed, enthralled by the artificial glow even as I am outraged at the audacity. I can’t bring myself to wholly resent the extravagant street lights that let many travel safely at night even as they kill my sky. But I can’t help but wonder if we can make do with less. In a couple more decades perhaps, the dark sky filled with stars will be completely replaced by the orange dome, a dome so thick nothing will get through. We will have conquered the old universe then. The new one will have no night. I wish to be dead before that happens.

If I were a better poet, I would pen elegies that would move even the coldest of hearts. If I were a better lover, I would lead a revolution, fight all who seek to deprive me of the sight of my beloved. But as it is, I only ask. Very politely. That you turn off the lights you don’t need.