The Artist was dead. He was no more.
People mourned his death. Experts talked in important, low voices about the great loss to his art form that his death shall cause. They clucked their tongues and shook their heads sadly.
The electronic media made a spectacle of the whole episode. TV vans were set up in front of the artist’s house.
Multiple television anchors quizzed his family members, servants, his gardener, his dog. People at home stayed glued to their television screens, while news panelists sang empty rhetorics.
His family had flown in from abroad just that morning. His wife shed profuse tears, her hand on the corpse’s cold forehead. His son paced worriedly, talked to important looking persons, and carefully averted the television cameras.
Ministers and important people came and went with their entourage. People thronged his house to pay their last respects.
But the person who was the closest to the Artist stayed home. And wept.
The Other Woman.
Her whole world had come crashing down with the Artist’s death. He was everything to her, and all she could see around herself was darkness.
When he was alive, she had begged him to legitimize their love. But he had declined.
“I don’t need a marriage certificate and a registration to love you.”, he had said.
He was impractical. He was an artist.
“What does a ‘marriage’ signify? Nothing! My legally married wife hasn’t seen me in years.”, he had argued.
He was a lover. And he loved her with all her heart. He looked after her well. But he never bothered about legitimacy.
And now, that the Artist had fallen, the vultures had arrived, from far off skies to feed off his ‘carcass’ – his legacy. They had formed an invisible fortress to ensure that she couldn’t break through into it. To ensure that she would never be heard of again.
But, she didn’t complain. She was destined to shed copious tears, and sigh from far, for she was ‘The Other Woman’. Not to be acknowledged.