Drops

Upanshu Mishra

(he writes)

Drops

In a cloud hanging about the far portions of the horizon there lived a drop as mad as raging erections are. It was so enamored by the cloud it resided on that it never let go of its home even during the rainiest of days. While seasons never mattered; yet the monsoons evoked in it a dread that one only sees in virgins before their first coital experience. It was an initiation the drop was loathe to go through. It didn't matter what the other featureless drops thought of it. It didn't matter if they came back with adventurous tales of the civilization below. The raging sea didn't matter, the shivering river didn't matter, the collected springs didn't matter. "All you little fucks do is lose your own form and become a part of something else, something huge. Well guess what I like myself tiny. At least I can proudly say its me."

It was a sad existence that the bitter drop led. Or so thought the happiest raindrop on that cloud.

It was the epitome of drop philosophy- to have dropped from all corners of the cloud to all the corners of the world. It’d been to Caspian sea to review the truth behind a man like figure resting underneath a six-headed snake, but was pretty tight-'lipped' about that journey. ‘That ass’, ‘Look at him roll, if only droplets could strut’, ‘Just because you have touched the floor of Mariana trenches doesn’t mean you’re something hot’.

“Jealous condensation of water molecules, what a waste.”

Its shiny exterior hid behind all the disdain it carried within for its fellows.

“The same old story with them all, this city that puddle, that face that mouth; oh the horror, it may have been my end. No wonder they all come back so dull as if someone had forcefully sent them to school. Now that is a good image, drops carrying bags filled with textbooks studying hard to be a part of the civil world. “

But there was one drop who it could not understand. A drop without ideals, without purpose. A  drop that didn’t deserve its name. The happiest one became the crankiest when it saw that crackpot lazing around. Its brilliance defied that of the sun as soon as that hazy drop came into view.

"I hope it just disappears one day, becomes ozone or something."

"How do you electrolyze a raindrop with only surface charges?"

"Look who's here. The great I've-been-to-places-you-know-jack-shit-about. Well there's news for you jack shit. I don't care."

It wasn't news to the mad drop that the happiest one was planning something. It always shone more when it thought.

"I never brag my exploits and besides for someone who has never dropped even once it doesn't even matter."

"And why is that, I'm more rain than you'll ever be."

"Yet you'll never be a drop. What use are you as rain if you've never dropped. Are you so scared?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

It was a usual banter between them. To others it almost seemed playful with a tinge of animosity to spice things up. They were as nonchalant about it as drops could be. But no one, not even the charge that set things to motion could predict the events that were to follow later on.

                                                                               
                                                                                     *****

"Sheesh! They are at it again."

"For the love of static electricity."

"These drops are dumb."

"It doesn't matter boss'n-charge says to be thunder ready ASAP"

The charges unlike the drops were a disciplined unit. Even as dispersed individuals of varying electronic density they had the same mindset, a unified purpose to create a lightning strike on earth, to make some noise in the heavens. It was sort of a tradition they followed blindly. That's why no matter how interesting the squabble between the drops seemed it didn't matter, for they had their orders.

But among all the charges there was a meddlesome little bugger, hyperactive as a sugar high tot hell bent on burning home to ashes. Obviously it was difficult to control, but as they say keep the charges busy and lightning strikes come easy. Though even with this mantra this charge was quite a handful especially in crucial moments. And so the boss'n-charge was hardly surprised when it registered the absence of the menacing charge.

‘I don't have time for this shit.’ “Charges, you know what to do, how to do and why to do; Right!"
The charges were all silent. As if silence was the new code of affirmation.

"Then what the fuck are you waiting for. Let’s get this show off the clouds."

With that it began.

*****

Lightning and the thunder that follows hold different connotations for different people or peoples for that matter. For me it’s just a flash bang, for my alter-ego its noisy fireworks. For my future kids it may be the next big scare of the week. One of my friends once used the time delay between subsequent thunders to predict the storm. She couldn't have been more wrong. But you can be certain about one thing, my readers. In this 'miniverse' of mine lightning means something. Of course its about the raindrops. Not talking to you dear readers. Forgive me for its my alter ego striving to gain dominance over my consciousness. Beat around the bush, you say. You little piece of, its because of you that I'm doing this. So get down and let me end this.

So as I was saying that the forked flash pillars of stray seeming yet organized charges mean something to the drops. Like the hoot of an owl signifies the night, like the call of a bugle means another hellish day for greenhorn cadets. The lightning is meant to be an alert for the drops to rain.

"It's that time again eh.."

"Well looks like time up. Do me a favor and just drop on some human or a bird or an animal."

The hyperactive charge up above was oblivious of the background, but the thunder that followed startled him.

"Holy Bolt! The boss is going to swallow me this time for sure. Why didn't anybody tell me? What am I going to do now? There's no use hyperventilating now. Think. Think!"

But hyperactive charges on panic mode rarely think. They pace around a lot, for the ideas to come and once in a while they loose their footing and slip. It doesn't matter if you are not made out of pure electricity. You usually hurt yourself in such cases. But for a stray charge it meant disasters to be unleashed. Like a tiny wisp of electrical impulse hitting the happiest drop head on ozonizing the little adventurer in an instant. Like the hyperactive one colliding with the loony sloth both dropping from the cloud. One creating a deafening roar just as it strikes a lightning rod haphazardly placed atop a building in my neighborhood. While the other finding its way to my gullet through my mouth awestruck at the brilliant spectacle. After all you don't see a lightning strike daily.