Let the clouds dance madly.

She was walking barefoot amidst the tall green grass in a white flowing dress that reached her knees, with her head on her shoulders adjusting the tight strips of the new dress that had already left a red mark on her sensitive skin. The wind was flirting with her free flowing hair gently swaying them such that the golden streaks reflected the sun’s gold. With one hand kissed by a ring on the third finger, she carefully handled her windy skirt, a faint smile on her face as she found a place to lie down in the shoots that were rising till above her knees. She bent to place her coffee mug and her book down, two things that were the only respite she was left with. She would come here often when she had lost all energy to fight, to protest. She would lie down flat on her back and keep staring on the vast blue sky for hours and hours together. Today was another personal meeting between her and the blue skies; she was lying with her thoughts speaking to the blueness, searching for some answers. At other moments she painted her imagination on the blue pastel canvas. Others she would join clouds to make faces, some known, some unknown, untouched, new whom she didn’t know, who had never hurt her.

And this time she wanted it to rain. So badly. So desperately. She viewed the picturesque purple mountains around her as an infant views her mother while lying in her lap, trying to gather as much as she could in her eyes. But they too seemed to be sad, as if the scorching sun had tormented them. They too needed rain.

The wind had picked up its pace. Lying at the grass, in that position she could actually see it moving, swirling twigs, fallen leaves, crushed flowers. But where were the water drops? The drops of hope, the drops of peace. The drops that heaven pours for the parched souls. Drops that are sometimes more alcoholic than any other neat beverage Where was the rain?  All that she could do was imagine the clouds coalescing together, sharing their treasure and blessing her with the shower. The grass was struggling against the wind, bending over her, covering her, as a mother protects her child with her dupatta , a scarf of the Indian lands.  But the cruel currents of air were managing the protest effortlessly, in no time a twig almost blinded her. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the energies of the world.

The very next moment she got up and sat, as if she had seen a nightmare. Tears rolled down her cheeks, sweat moved swift on her forehead. Again, she felt weak, her legs shrugging beneath her, life moving out of her in patterns. This pain wasn’t new to her. Every time she closed her eyes to sleep peacefully, he was there, right in front of her, something that she always wanted. Reels of the time they had spent together rolled in front of her eyes. The endless talking on phone echoed her ears. Her loud laughter, his faint smile; her humming melody, his soothing guitar; the moments of fighting over favorite bands and books, the hours spent lying drunk on the open terrace watching the night sky full of stars, everything whizzed past her face.  Everything so perfect. But this uncalled perfection made her feel helpless because of its undesirability on both ends. He had never said he loved her. She hadn’t imagined it either. It seemed obvious. It is the roar of the waterfall that makes its height obvious. It is the vastness of the white snow that makes its serenity predictable. It is the intensity of a relation that makes love obvious. So, she hadn’t imagined.

‘Rain through the clouds I said, let the clouds dance madly’, she shouted. ‘Why don’t you make it rain? Why don’t you drown me?’  She was floating in love, drowning in madness .Her body felt cold.’ Immerse me in a tub of chilled water that could freeze my nerves. Make me fly or bring him here.’ As a fresh stream of tears blinded her, she felt something warm near her, a comfort, a wished respite. It wasn’t as cold as the cruel wind. It was his warm breath. He was sitting too near her that with her eyes wide open she could see only his eyes. The pastel hue of his blue eyes was identical to the ocean she had once seen, in turmoil. He wasn’t quiet either. He wasn’t not in love with her.

He bent closer. Now she could see nothing except pure love, if pure love follows exactly the dimensions as it has been told to, if pure love was the pure love of the century old stories, the Cinderella like fables,  and the love stories she had seen after they were crafted into movies. She wanted to kiss him. But more than that, she wanted him to kiss her first, with an intensity that makes her forget whatever she had lost and sucks out all the negative energy she was falling prey to. She wanted him to kiss her in a way that no longer makes her sick to submit to wander in lust. A kiss that is enough to make her understand that love is devoid of reciprocation if it is pure love. Love can survive in solitude for it has survived through the hollowness of the space. It is here that it travels between the planets and the sun, the sun maintains an adequate distance from the planets for it knows that its proximity might burn them. Proximity is just a preferable but not a necessary condition for the survival of love, as  distance is.