Drought

I have a frozen rain in a glass jar. A regiment of raindrops. Carefully synchronized. The droplets are always in the state of falling. So that the rain goes on forever.

I often step into the glass. I look for you, dear girl. Behind one of those raindrops. I walk carefully through the rough, uneven passage between two raindrops or three. Sometimes, it’s too dense. I take extra care to keep myself dry. You’d need my warmth when I’d find you in the rain. Too wet. Drenched.

Do you remember how you had hidden yourself behind a tear once? Said you can’t waste more fountains than this.

“Weeping is sacrilege,” you had said “if you can’t drink your tears.”

I’ve drank it all now. I’ve drank my own tears. I’ve drank the tears of all who’ve wept in our town. I’ve drank up some of their blood too. And I think I’ve drank up all the rain before it could sprinkle on their palms. And their closed eyelids.

When some of it froze in front of my own eyes, I put it in a glass jar. I brought it home. For you, dear girl. See, the rain goes on forever in the jar.

See, I’m home.

See, I’ve forgotten nothing.

See, I still remember you and me sitting on the verandah in some humid, moonlit night. Your head resting on my shoulder as your voice, moist, melts deep into the night –

“One of these days, I’ll make you call the plumber. One of our taps shall be broken and our bathroom shall be overflowing in water.”

And we laugh. Together.