Once — many years ago — I suddenly found my heart too small. It could not hold everything I wanted it to hold. So I walked the streets of the day and the night, searching for something I could not name. One evening, as dusk was filling its own heart with night, I heard a faint “siz-siz” from above. Someone, atop a street lamp, was trying to get my attention. “What?” I asked, looking up. I could not see much. The silhouette was only a blur — a human figure in black clothes, bent over the lamp. Whoever it was seemed to be filling the lamp with oil. A few drops fell, and the darkness below drank them silently. Then a match was struck. Its flash spilled downward, and for a moment I saw a zebra line of light — a ripple of colour left behind by the darkness.
A faintly lit smile appeared above me. A shadowed hand lifted the lamp’s glass cover, and the burning match touched the wick. Fire bloomed — a brief whoosh of light and smoke — before falling into the evening air. “Hello,” I said. “Why should you worry" came the reply — not a question, but something gentler. A reassurance. I wondered how that stranger knew my worry. Was it, maybe, AI? “No,” said the smile. “You’re sixty years early.” “Ah! Yes, I am.”
“Listen,” he said, “I’ll lend you my heart. You lend me yours.” That sounded fair enough. “Barter?” “No. Just lending.” “How do I know yours is big?” “Try.” I was still weighing the transaction when the face chuckled softly. “Hey?” it said. I looked up and saw two bare feet balanced on the top rung of a ladder. The left hand opened the front button of a shirt; the right hand slid in and came out holding a heart — as smoothly as an ice-cream vendor scoops a perfect ball of strawberry cream. “Super!” I said. “No,” the voice laughed, “You’re sixty years early.”
“How did you do that?”
“Take this — and give me yours.” So I did. I scooped out my small heart, wondering how it had managed to hold all I had filled it with in two decades of wandering. It looked so tiny now — and I felt like I was cheating, trading this small thing for one so large. “No,” said the voice above. “I am gaining.” I grew suspicious. “Has your heart some problem? Mitral valve? Cardiomyopathy? Anything congenital?”
“No medical problem,” he said, “it’s in perfect condition. One of the best you can ever get.” I thought, Ah. I am making a mistake — as usual. But it went smoothly. The new heart’s beats were strong, confident, alive. I thanked the face, the feet, and the hands. The smile shone once more — warm, forgiving. As I walked home, I began to think of what to fill my new heart with. So I filled it — with sand, stones, rocks, flowers, leaves; with the azure of the day and the alpenglow of the sun; with the sound of monsoon rain, and the smile on the faces of an infant and its mother as they fAn interesting approach ed each other; with the softness of clouds, and other things too delicate to name — the kind whose marvelous pollen you rub off at the touch of a word. But the new heart never filled — not even halfway. Everything I put in flowed out, leaving only a loving smile — so similar, but not quite equal, to the one I saw on the lamplighter’s face.
After much thought, I decided to return the big heart and get back my own. After all, my small heart had held everything precious — even if it could no longer take in more. So one evening I went back to the lamp post. But it was no longer an oil lamp. It was an electric bulb, powered by a solar panel fixed above the cover. I knew then — my heart was gone forever. I sat down on the footpath. The big heart was beating in my throat. Blaming myself for another foolish act, I looked up. A young crescent moon — one or two days old — smiled down at me. A passerby stopped and smiled too. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s only Schrödinger’s cat. Both dead and alive.” I smiled at him and slowly walked home, leaving my smile there on the pavement. Maybe it will come back to me someday.
