Un-Manifested

How do I define something that touches me as gently as a light drizzle misguided by an angry wind? Defying gravity, the tiny droplets surrender to the wind and sets sail on its bosom. Some get thrashed to the ground; some take the upward flight, while some others float in the air like some wet dreams. The certainty that gravity gives to a raindrop's descent ceases to be with these tiny droplets in motion. Somewhere in the wind, I stand with my hands in my pockets. A spell of drizzle is followed by some moments of drought, before the wind forces the drizzle towards me again. The droplets settle on my skin but I do not feel the wetness; somewhere it drowns into the arid within me. I nevertheless wipe my face and caress my hair against the wind’s desire and direction. And a wonder strikes me: does the dewy-drizzle long to be called as the rain or the dew? In its middle-of-the-road existence, how does it set its footprints in our memory? As the dew, or as the rain?

It tells me of the love that never manifests itself. But it does subsist, like the warmth in the folds of our arms, frittering away when we extend our hands and growing into us as we brace ourselves. And all this while, we whine in search for a comfy home and a table of food for the heart, never realizing that we are diluting our greatest treasure in our extended arms.

I wipe my hands and see a new flurry of drizzle settling down in its place. It hangs on to a thin bracelet that a friend had given me in the autumn of 2007. I can see the small insignificant droplets merging into a drop on the bracelet. There is one drop and then there are some more, all on the bracelet. I shake it and see some raindrops descending to the call of gravity. Holding my bracelet, I head towards defining the un-manifested love.