Footprints in Dew

It was the hour before the sun, when the world of Vrindavan held its breath. The cows were not yet awake. The dogs had grown quiet. The Yamuna moved without sound, the way a sleeping body moves in its dreams. And the gopis — the milkmaids of Vrindavan, who loved Krishna more than they loved their own sleep — slipped out of their houses one by one.

He had been with them the night before. They had danced. The forest had lit itself for the dance, every tree a lamp, every flower a small bell. And then, the way Krishna always did, He was gone. He had not said where. He had not said when. He had only smiled the smile that they would carry for the rest of their lives, and stepped into the dark between two trees.

Now the gopis were looking for Him.

They did not call out. To call out would have been to admit how much they needed Him, and besides, the morning was too soft for shouting. They simply walked, slowly, looking down at the ground.

And then one of them — perhaps it was Lalita, perhaps it was no one in particular — bent down and pointed. There, in the dew, was a footprint. Small. A boy's foot. The little curve of the heel. The five small toes. Already, in the dew of the next blade of grass, beginning to fade.

They followed. Footprint to footprint. Sometimes the print was clear. Sometimes only a softness in the grass, as if the dew had been pressed and then released. Sometimes nothing at all for ten steps, and then suddenly a print again, exactly where they had begun to despair. They did not speak. They walked the way one walks inside a held breath.

They did not find Him that morning. The trail ended at the bank of the river, and the river had no footprints. The gopis sat down. They were not unhappy. They were full of the strange happiness of those who have been led somewhere true even if the door at the end did not open.

One of them said, He is teaching us. To find Him without finding Him.

Another said, To love Him without holding Him.

A third one said nothing at all. She was watching a dew-drop on her own toe, and smiling.

You may feel something tonight that feels like a footprint in dew. A small flutter, and then nothing. A small turning, and then stillness. You will reach for it and it will not be there. Do not be afraid. The gopis would tell you what they learned by the river that morning. The footprint is not the foot. The foot is somewhere, walking. And it is walking towards you.