The Waiting

The moonlight fell through the carved window and pooled around her like silver water. She lay with her chin resting on her hand, eyes open, gazing at something no one else could see. Behind her, at the edge of the darkness, a great black shadow stirred, not threatening, but watching. It was her longing, they say. In Vrindavan, a woman’s longing becomes a living thing when it grows long enough. It breathes. It paces. It watches the door with red eyes. She was not afraid of it. She had fed it herself every night she spent waiting for the one who had not yet returned.

Object number

012.05.012