bhaskar saikia

For most of human history, the night sky was not a curiosity—it was a companion. Civilizations navigated by stars, mythologized constellations, and measured time by celestial rhythms. The sky was not something people visited occasionally; it was something they lived beneath.

In the modern world, this relationship has quietly eroded.

Artificial lighting has extended productivity and comfort, but it has also erased darkness. In cities, the stars have vanished—not because they are gone, but because we have drowned them out. Light pollution is one of the least discussed environmental issues, yet it profoundly affects ecosystems, human health, and cultural memory.

Darkness is not emptiness. It is a natural state.

The loss of dark skies disconnects us from scale. When the stars are visible, it becomes harder to believe that everything revolves around markets, deadlines, or news cycles. The universe reminds us—silently—that we are part of something vast, ancient, and indifferent to our noise.

This perspective matters, especially in turbulent times. Societies under stress tend to become inward-looking, reactive, and fearful. The night sky does the opposite: it expands perspective. It invites humility. It slows thought.

There is also a psychological cost to never experiencing true night. Research increasingly links excessive artificial light to sleep disorders, anxiety, and disrupted circadian rhythms. Darkness, like silence, is restorative. It allows the nervous system to stand down.

Reconnecting with the night sky is not nostalgia—it is recalibration. It is a way of remembering that not everything needs illumination, explanation, or control. Some things are meant to be observed quietly, without interference.

In a world where information never sleeps, choosing darkness—literal darkness—is a form of resistance. It restores attention, patience, and wonder.

Perhaps the future is not about seeing more screens more clearly, but about seeing the stars again—and remembering our place beneath them.