Come nightfall, the air shifts, becoming lighter and lighter as the temperature drops and the humidity expands. It floats in the canals of the ears and at the back of the throat and in the spaces between each eyelash, opening the orifices. Aziz pitches a tent and skins three Indian hares, black-naped and wild-eyed with spoon-shaped ears, throwing their interiors aside for the things that squirm and crunch and pant in the dark. Hasan waits for him to unpack the kindling that their father stuffed into a burlap sack and the dinner that their mother folded into a tiered, dimpled tiffin box that reflected the moonlight in speckles. White stars migrate across Aziz’s gray face as he removes it from his duffel bag. Three flicks and a whoosh make one flame, which eats through the kindling in seconds before latching onto the cone of firewood.
Miles away, night-blooming cacti release their pheromones to attract bats and hawk moths the size of Hasan’s palm so that their plush bodies may become barges for pollen. Hawk moths with the face of a praying mantis painted onto their backs stick their needle mouths into the nectaries and taste a trace of firewood smoke and homemade kitchari and naan cooked in the neighborhood’s stone oven. Miles away, eating kitchari with naan around a dancing flame, Hasan and Aziz catch a whisper of the green essence of jasmine and chlorophyll in their noses. Green fluorescent circles flit in and out of the corners of Hasan’s vision. Frog skin ripples the pond, and the nighttime dance begins.
(2025-04-24)
Zoe Pian 