Bidai (parting) | Supriya Vasishta

You asked my name
And my whispered response scattered in the wind
Didn’t you see the distant storm
Gathering momentum?
The wasteland that housed our emotions
Parched, thirsty
Where did you go?
Why did you not stop?
To smell the wet earth
Petrichor like.
I lived
From one unforgiving sunrise to sunset
My eyes scanning the busy streets
And dying every night
When the darkness mocked your absence
And finally, when you appeared
I saw you through a gauzy red veil
Hennaed hands and feet
The shehnai, the shamiana
All in place
And it was late, too late.

Supriya Vasishta loves her career as a teacher of English. Her students range from energetic third graders to enthusiastic grandmas. Even though she switched tracks and became an entrepreneur, teaching remains her first love. The written word fascinates her and through it she seeks to live a parallel life. Her works have appeared in Deccan Herald and The Hitavada – daily newspapers and in Indian Periodical, an online magazine.

She loves reading, travel and thriller movies. She lives in Bangalore, India, with her two children, three assorted near-human dogs and a roomful of books.