Moonlight on the Roof!

When the first morning light came through the small storeroom window, Zib's eyes opened. His fever was a little lower than it had been in the night, but his heart still felt heavy. He looked at his wrist-band and whispered very softly, “Ammi-Jaan, I am getting better. Please do not worry.”

There was so much missing in his voice that Danish's heart filled up too. Danish thought of his own Abu. Dubai was very far away, and no video call had been promised for today.

“Zib, look!” Danish said, pointing at the wrist-band.

On the wrist-band, five little moons were shining now. One moon had gone out in the night.

“Five days are left,” Danish said quietly. “Five days until the Golmol Gate closes.”

Zib nodded. “Five moons. Five nights. Then… then the door closes.” He closed his small four-fingered fist. “Today the chand-pattar must charge. It must.”

Ammi came to call them for breakfast. She touched Zib's forehead and smiled. “The fever is lower. Well done, my brave guest! But do you remember the rules?”

“Yes, Ammi Madam!” Zib said, standing up straight as if he were at school. “Tell Chacha Rasheed nothing. Do not go outside the house. And learn one correct Urdu word every day!”

“Today's word is roshni,” Ammi said. “Roshni means the light that beats the darkness.”

Zib rolled the word around in his mouth. “Roshni! Roshni! There is roshni in my wrist-band! There is roshni in Danish's smile! And there is roshni in your khichri too!”

Ammi laughed. “There is no light in khichri, Zib.”

“There is!” Zib said. “When I was sick, your khichri kept me warm. That is roshni!”

Danish laughed, but worry sat behind his laugh. The chand-pattar was still not charged. The ghanti-coil was fitted in the ship, but the ship could only fly when the chand-pattar was filled with moonlight.

The day passed very slowly. Zib tried the word roshni on everything. He looked at Madam the cat, who sat by the window flicking her tail, and said, “Madam, there is roshni in your eyes too. But do not steal my roshni!”

Madam stared at him, then jumped up in one leap and ran out of the storeroom, as if to say she had no interest at all in Zib's talk.

In the afternoon Ammi called Danish close. “Listen,” she said softly, “tonight the moon will come out clear. I have checked the weather. We will put the chand-pattar on the roof. But carefully. Zib may go onto the roof, not into the street. And no noise.”

“Ammi, the chand-pattar is in the ship,” Danish said. “The ship is stuck in the mango tree.”

“Then we will fetch it in the evening, when Chacha Rasheed has gone home,” Ammi said. “And do not touch his notebook. Let it stay stuck in the branch.”

As evening fell, Danish went to the mango tree. The ship lay hidden between the branches, round and small, as if the tree had taken it into its lap. Danish reached out carefully and took out the chand-pattar. It was a flat, round plate, cold and heavy, and its colour was a dull grey. There was not a single ray of light in it.

“You are completely empty,” Danish whispered. “But tonight the moon will fill you.”

Zib stood quietly at the foot of the roof stairs, wrapped in a blanket. As soon as Danish gave him the chand-pattar, its four-fingered touch met the plate and the plate grew a little warm.

“It knows me!” Zib said in wonder. “It is a Golmol thing. It knows the light of my fingers!”

At night the moon rose. First it was a faint ray, then the full moon shone in the clear sky. Ammi placed a clean tray on the roof, and Danish set the chand-pattar on it. The three of them sat down quietly.

At first nothing happened. The plate stayed just as dull as before. Danish's heart began to sink.

“Have patience,” Ammi said. “Light needs time.”

Zib closed his eyes and began to hum the Golmol song very softly. The song was round and gentle, and in it lived the memory of his Ammi-Jaan's voice. As he sang, a faint blue line shone along the edge of the chand-pattar. Then another line. Then the whole plate began to glow softly, as if the moon had poured its own reflection into it.

“Look!” Danish whispered. “It is charging!”

Ammi placed her hand on Zib's head. Zib opened his eyes. There were glowing drops in them.

“Ammi-Jaan,” he said, “can you hear me? I am coming home.”

Danish looked up at the sky and remembered his Abu. “Abu,” he said in his heart, “I wish you could see this light too.”

Just then a sound came from the street — “Khat! Khat!”

Danish peered down. Chacha Rasheed had come back! He had a ladder in his hand, a torch on his head, and a camera hanging from his neck.

“Today I will get my notebook too,” Chacha Rasheed muttered, “and a photograph of the alien too! In the moonlight the alien is sure to come out!”

He leaned the ladder against the mango tree and began to climb. His torch beam wandered through the branches.

“Quiet!” Ammi whispered, and started to cover the chand-pattar with the blanket, but it was too late. Chacha Rasheed looked towards the roof, and his eyes grew wide.

“Light!” he shouted. “Blue light on the roof! The alien! The alien has come!”

He raised his camera. At that very moment the ladder shook.

“Oye!” Chacha Rasheed cried. The ladder tilted to one side. One of his feet hung in the air. The torch fell. The camera swung from his neck.

Danish held back a scream. Chacha Rasheed was about to fall!

Zib did not think for a moment. He threw off the blanket, ran to the edge of the roof, and stretched out both his small blue hands. Blue light poured from his hands and held the ladder, as if a rope made of light had tied the ladder fast.

Chacha Rasheed hung in the air, then came down slowly and sat on the ground. His legs were shaking. His camera was in his hand.

Everyone went silent.

Chacha Rasheed looked up. In the moonlight he saw Zib — small, blue, with glowing hands, standing on the roof.

“You…” Chacha Rasheed said, stammering. “You are real? You… you saved me?”

Zib hid his hands behind his back, but his glow could not be hidden.

“I… I am Zib,” he said. “I am not a bad alien. I am a school child.”

Chacha Rasheed looked at his camera. On its little screen was a photograph — blue light, glowing hands, and Zib's face, perfectly clear.

He held the camera up, and his voice shook. “Proof! I have proof! Tomorrow morning the whole neighbourhood will see it! The whole city will see it! I will be famous!”

Danish's heart sank. “Chacha, stop! Please!”

But Chacha Rasheed did not listen. He gathered up the ladder and ran into the street, clutching the camera to his chest.

And at that very moment a cloud drifted in front of the moon. On the roof, the blue glow of the chand-pattar flickered, then grew dim, then went out.

Zib looked at the empty plate, then at the running Chacha Rasheed. Glowing drops filled his eyes.

“The chand-pattar is only half charged,” he whispered. “And the secret… the secret is now in Chacha Rasheed's camera!”

Ammi held Danish's hand. Danish held Zib's hand.

Down in the street, Madam the cat sat flicking her tail, as if she knew that the real trouble had only just begun. And from the window of Chacha Rasheed's house, the camera light kept flashing again and again — “Click! Click! Click!”