''Oh, sun-streaked summer cloud, why do you linger so? You're a rebellious teenager. The sun's rays are penetrating. Such nosy psychologists! They're poking their noses into your secluded world. Don't tell them what's inside! Don't tell them what's inside!"
Raina sat before me, snapping her fingers incessantly. She was completely shameless. Her glassy green eyes bore a bored, lethargic look, as my gaze lingered on the big ice cream stain on the front of her polka dotted night suit. "If you stop looking at it like that, and consider it to be a puddle of yellow sunshine, maybe things would be better," she spoke, her voice clear and resounding. Despite being her pyschologist, I felt as though she had taught me something very essential. "A puddle of sunshine... Sure, why not?" I smiled, as she handed over her folders. "So, how is school going on?" I asked, as I leafed through her papers. "Well, I don't go to any school," she replied, unruffled, as I stared back at her. A moment later, I could see why. She had tried to burn her own house, just a week back.
There were these blurred, stapled photos of bits of rubble and smoke. She stood triumphantly over the debris, with this candle in her hand. She wasn't a normal, depressed teenager, I could see that. I couldn't just leap onto the situation or grab her by the neck and demand an immediate answer. I had to be patient. I waited, as she gazed at the swinging pictures on my brightly coloured walls. I followed her gaze to the picture of the solitary lighthouse on the moonlit sea. She couldn't get her eyes off that lighthouse. I reached over, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She jumped, and jerked forward. ''Sensitivity to gentle touch.... first indication of physical abuse," I murmured. "The Lighthouse looks ever so ethereal, doesn't it? And those silvery ripples of the dark waters.... They look so innocent, but can be so betraying. Maybe the moon has written all her secrets on the ocean. And maybe, her silvery light is making her secrets seem so attractive that everyone is drawn towards me. Yet, not everyone can comprehend the moon's language. Nor, can everyone understand the rasping, arboreal language of the trees.." she continued, talking to herself, as I hung onto her every word. It seemed as though she really, really liked lighthouses. Is that why she burnt her own house? Why would someone burn a very elegant looking bungalow just because it wasn't a lighthouse? The whirlwind of questions in my mind continued to rage, as I observed her every gesture.Such a moulded perspective, which calls mango ice cream a puddle of sunshine? And yet, such intense negativity which coaxes her to burn her own beautiful house? "The Moon is so beautiful. Her resplendent surface glistens so beautifully. Yet, one day, it wanted to burn the cloak of darkness that surrounds it. It wanted to shrug off the looming cloak of black! But, it ended up scarring its own beautiful face. After all, bad memories are etched into the stones of enternity. They don't go away so easily. I pity the poor moon. The darkness stuck. The memories stuck," she said, lifting up the loose sleeves of her cascading gown. I gasped. Big, black scars stained her fair complexion.
"But, the fire emitted sparks as well. Those sparks become stars and studded the moon's cloak of darkness. But, the scars were there for ever. And, it was the people who enjoyed the light of the sparks. It was the people who cherished the star light. The moon could never reach out and touch the stars," added the girl. "I need you to help me touch the stars. I don't know where they are. I've never seen them before. But, I need you to help me. I know the stars are there. They must be there somewhere. I need you to help me find them,".
Surprisingly, there was a tear in my eye.