‘My Master’s Love’

She is now in the

geriatric ward

of my master’s house,

bed-ridden,

cough-stricken.

Her bed- a bed pan

and the floor

a piss pan.

My master is a butler

for her deeds.

She is my master’s love.

My master promised

to live with her,

when he saw her

at the hill station,

his frolicking holidays

with her.

I saw her

at a squat

over my master’s

whiskey table.

He teased her

with a slander,

and, introduced her.

I shook my hands

with her legs.

She has the traits

of a Tibetan,

journeyed all the way

from that place.

I was in love with her.

And, my master

never lets me share

his love.

A fine evening

saw the three of us

walking to the park.

Those were heydays.

She was nimble

and rapidly coped

with the boys

playing cricket.

She teased them.

And, the boys

made love with her.

We were happy-

I, my master and

my master’s love.

Now,

as I switch off the fan

in the geriatric ward,

I see my master

making love and fun

with her.

I feel my master’s crying eyes

for his love,

for his comrade

in gay and morose,

for his soul partner.

When I lounged,

there was nostalgia,

of egg and fish snatch

between her and

my master’s mistress.

My master’s mistress

was a striped,

somber being

of the feline family.

But, my master prayed

when doctors targeted

her death in sixty days.

I pray for my master’s love.

She was polite and amiable,

cordial and loyal,

exclusively his, ours.

She was from the hills.

She was my master’s loved

white mastiff.