What I remember about the super blue blood moon on 31st January was not the phenomenon of the eclipse itself but of standing out in the little street in front of the house with my father and my niece; of the neighbours, by and by, trickling out of their homes. Of the atmosphere of cordiality — too cool to be called camaraderie — as families (each lingering on that part of the sidewalk that might casually be acknowledged their extended property) nodded to each other and made sporadic small talk, all a part of a loose gathering too sparse to be called a crowd in any way but bound lightly by familiarity-of-sight after long shared residence in this small housing estate.

And of the curiously hushed tone of the conversation, which is not reverential (in his light-polluted sphere an eclipse elicits little true awe or dread in the city dweller) so much as the conditioned, self-imposed modulation of the theatre-goer, as if dimly perceiving ourselves the mannerly audience of a celestial performance pre-curtain.