The Master had taken a wife,
to toil and cater for his every whim.
He made demands of her,
molding her to suit his desires.
Nothing else could matter but him;
Not a job, not a child, definitely not her.
Determined to make it work, and
hopeful for a change someday,
she cooked, cleaned, created her world around him;
oblivious of her status as a ‘slave’.
Ill health came knocking,
fierce and determined to invite his friend, death!
But like a lioness,
she fought with strength and
won the war all five times.
The Master, however took no pity;
Even as the illness took its toll and
left her feeble, he seemed hellbent
to sap her of the only strength she had left.
Indeed, she failed to realize,
or maybe she did but couldn’t resist giving in,
for he was her Achilles heel;
In the end, her doom.
She had spent her life catering for him,
and got nothing in return;
Not even his gratitude,
for his love was a reward best imagined.
He knew not what the word meant.
She withered daily,
partly from the blows received during the five wars.
The rest, from wasting what was left of her strength on the Master.
Again, death came calling;
In the wee hours of a wet and windy morning,
she welcomed it in bed, lying on her back.
In it she looked serene,
her lips, tilted upwards at both corners;
the hint of a smile.
Her hands linked together across her belly,
soft from motherhood.
Her head, still atop her pillow,
she departed the world just as she got in,
And her earth’s existence had been for naught.