Either the potential rainbow seeps into your heart,
Or the rainstorm does.
They’re puppets, controlled by your heartstrings,
Contingent on the presence of a co-puppeteer,
Or the absence thereof.
Or so they say.
Once upon a time, when I believed in fairy-tales,
I believed their words.
And many monsoons passed,
Some pink, some gray,
Till my belief in their words disappeared
With my belief in fairy-tales.
I distinctly remember that rainy afternoon.
I was humming a song in the pervasive gray.
The sky rattled with the windows,
And in the occasional blinding flashes of light, I saw incessant drops hit the pane.
Drops of water.
Of thought.
Of emotion.
Were tugging at the heartstrings,
Creating a frenzied dance
Of the rainstorm.
The puppeteer played the puppet nimbly,
Easily, with only one hand.
His other hand was occupied,
With numerous bags-
One for his material possessions,
One for his dreams,
One for his fears,
Four for his uncertainties,
One for his insecurity,
And one for the road he hadn’t taken.
For he was a travelling puppeteer.
When his shows were over, and the equipment was packed,
The free hand latched onto the co-puppeteer’s,
When there was one,
And he took refuge in her heart.
Otherwise, he continuously travelled and performed,
Till fatigue threw him into fitful slumber.
On this afternoon, he had been performing since dawn;
Exhaustion crept into his limbs,
But he knew not how to stop.
He knew not what else to do with his free hand.
Suddenly, as though struck by lightning, he stopped.
He packed up his equipment.
He had made up his mind.
For now, he would perform no more.
He shifted four of his bags to his unoccupied hand.
Now, there seemed to be an equilibrium in his pace.
A confidence of being able to pull the strings
Of both the rainbow, and the rainstorm,
In the same show.
But he had to continue his journey.
He was, after all, a travelling puppeteer.