I was born in captivity. Politically, that is. It wasn’t anyone’s doing; I was caught in a light beam directed vaguely towards my planet in a random act of folly. For you see, the Planner isn’t known for planning things well. It seems a game to her in which experiments are fun and consequences are mischievous in nature.

I was six, perhaps seven, bewildered by my surroundings. I remember the barbwires, toping the metal wall, shining intimately against the setting sun. I remember stars: So many stars that there was hardly dark matter between them. They winked intermittently, independent of formality – much to my liking.

I remember my father’s torpid face; his concerned eyes looking at me in approbation. I remember him stroking my hair with his giant fingers. I remember his husky whisper, “Don’t lose hope, son.”

I remember the screams fading into cricket sonatas.

And that’s all I remember.