The Swan Flies Straight

The second Friday arrived the way a train arrives at a small station — slowly, noisily, and a little late. Zara had counted the days on her fingers every morning: Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday — and then, at last, Friday. All week she had carried Ayaan's first letter in her school bag, folded inside her notebook, and she had read the last line so many times that the paper had gone soft at the crease. "If my letters stop, follow the chart." She still did not know what it meant. But tonight she would not think about it. Tonight was the second Friday, and the second constellation on the chart was waiting.

She climbed to the rooftop just as the sky turned from orange to deep blue. The chart lay open in her lap at the second drawing — a long cross of stars, like a bird with its wings spread wide. Under it, in Ayaan's handwriting: "The swan flies in a straight line. So do we."

Cygnus. The swan. Zara smiled despite herself. Ayaan had always loved that one. "Look," he used to say, pointing up, "there is its neck, there are its wings. It looks as if it is flying across the sky, and it never turns. Straight. Always straight."

And suddenly she remembered the night before he left — the night he had told her why he chose Vega.

After dinner, Ayaan had brought her up to the roof one last time. "Tomorrow I go," he had said, "so tonight we choose our star." And then he told her about the first time: when Zara was eight years old, there had been a long power cut, and she was crying because she was afraid of the dark. Ayaan had taken her up to the roof, pointed at the brightest star in the sky, and said, "That one is ours. As long as it shines, I am with you." It was the first star they had ever watched together. "That is why Vega," Ayaan had said that last night. "Because it was the first. Because it was yours before it was mine."

Zara's eyes filled with tears. She looked at Vega and whispered, "Do you remember?"

This week's letter had arrived on Thursday — a day early. Ayaan had written it on Saturday morning, before his classes, and posted it on his way to the university. The letter was shorter than the first one, but it was warm: the hostel, his classes, a shortcut he had found to his department. And he had written about the swan too. "Find the swan tonight, Zara. It flies straight. No matter how far the sky is, it does not turn. So do we." She read the letter once more, and this time she felt as if the sentence was not only about the star.

In the afternoon she had called him. Her hands shook as she dialled. The phone rang once, twice — and then his voice, in a whisper: "Zara! I am in class —" Behind him she could hear a teacher's voice, chairs scraping, someone laughing. "Ayaan, who is that?" someone asked. "Friday night," he whispered quickly. "The star. Same time. Okay?" "But Ayaan, I wanted to ask —" "I have to go. Look at the star tonight." And the line went dead.

She had stared at the phone for a long time. The call had almost happened. Almost.

In the evening, Ammi came up to the roof with two cups of chai and sat down beside her. They talked for a while — school, Sana, the telescope Sana had lent her, the one with a cracked lens. Then Zara asked, quietly, "Ammi, is everything all right? Abu seems worried these days."

Ammi paused. She stirred her chai with a spoon. And then the words came out before she could stop them. "Beta, this month was a bad month for the bookshop. A very bad month. But do not tell your father I told you. He does not want anyone to worry." Then she caught herself and smiled too quickly. "It will be fine. Your Abu always manages."

Zara's heart began to beat faster. A bad month for the bookshop. Ayaan's letters getting shorter. And that strange sentence at the end of the first letter. The pieces did not fit together yet — but they were pieces. She looked up at Vega, and then at the swan. "The swan flies in a straight line," she whispered. "So do we. But tonight, Ammi, it feels as if our line is bending."

She opened her notebook and wrote: "Second Friday. Cygnus. The swan flies straight. Ayaan almost talked to me today — almost. And Ammi said the bookshop had a bad month. Nobody tells me anything. But I am watching. I am writing everything down."

As she folded the chart, she looked at the star once more and said, "Ayaan, whatever it is — I am not letting go." The star shone on, saying nothing. And far away in Karachi, Ayaan sat on his hostel rooftop too, looking at the same sky. His phone showed one missed call — Zara. He pressed the phone to his forehead and whispered, "Not yet, little sister. Not yet."