At the rear end, the iron curtain of obligation has decked up a gallery of the glass menagerie. Oracles unquestionably generate prototypes that down the line being pursued by the performers. But here in the Vale of Wolves, our menagerie amounts to a breathtaking balcony, wherein, instead of vivacious animals, the innovative and inspiring artists have replaced all life forms by self created glass menageries. The arresting attribute of the balcony is that every sill is bountiful with an infinite range of replicas. The lion, the jackals, the monkeys, the crocodiles and rest of the wild animals along with so-called modern artists who instead of learning and knowing the intricacies of art have decked up their shelves with what is being dictated to them by street artists who by a stroke of luck or other means managed to control the great artists. In this gallery of legends, the artists are forced to worship the glass menagerie in accordance with their requirements. The dictate seems harsh to a mediocre, but the slaves adore numerous gods and goddesses. Everything in this gallery is made up of glossy glass.
The man who guards the main gate has been raised out of tube light dust. The supervisor is a result of broken wine jars. The sweeper’s physique has been fashioned by a mad man out of broken mirrors. And the artists who are employed to add glass menagerie in the gallery are the artifact of coloured glass drawn together by local Kabaris. The administration that takes care of the gallery belongs to a special glass with a genteel touch and gracefulness. A good number of administrators are put on the show in the laboratories run by blacksmiths working in the glass industry. Another section is shaped by experts by what is left out in glass factories by specialists who after taking the dictations from the Glass Deities design them keeping in view the requirements of the Deities who need them as lifeless models on the shelves only to create a center of attention for the foreigners who after spending a hefty sum gets the hall ticket on a piece of a conked out glass. The broken edges often make them bleed to look their hall ticket colorful.
Every sculpture that is specially designed for this balcony before getting its place on the shelf has to undergo a ruthless inspection. The most conspicuous part of the model is that it is either fissured or forced to be out of order. This wreckage is recorded by the deities on the guidelines of Glass gods who in their glass houses celebrate glass glossary to suit their glass rooms. Their glass rules and glossy directives take control of human existence. They reduce them to a mere flower vase during elections and after their glass representatives are taken into glass gallery for felicitation, they are locked once for all. Then according to their composition, they are categorized. Wolves without will power, Jackals without zest, Lions without lust for the hunt, Crocodiles without tears, Cats without mustaches, Dogs without desires, Cows without milk, Ducks that hatch pigeon eggs, Donkeys that carry ideas and the army of Lambs with broken limbs acquire the requisite quota. Once these are selected for their permanent places on the glass shelves, their best part is either sliced or broken to make them lifeless. They are compelled to rely on external support. To be the part of this grand glass gallery , the newly formed model has to bear the burden of its own deformities. Even if one wishes to resign or raise the voice against the tyrant one- eyed glass guard, one has to surrender the shape. The deformed model cannot afford to be further ill-treated by the blacksmiths in the glass manufacturing industries. And the one who without knowing the secrets of the glass gallery wishes to be settled on the shelves has to undergo a brutal reconstruction of his framework. Everything that is placed on the shelf adds loveliness to the tyranny of the ruthless ruler who in the world of glass makers put them up for a sale to be replaced by next lot that has already been packed for the gallery.
In the world of glass, everything is brittle. The eyes are mere glass buttons devoid of human touch. The ears are projections of wine bottles lacking audibility. The noses are but mismatched pieces of bulbs hard to sense the smell. The head is specially designed by headless glass workers under the guidance of crystalline human forms. In this world of glass, we are reduced to glass menageries for we are by one or the other way decked up on the broken shelves to be removed whenever the need arises.
Who shall this gallery break into bits and drag the Glass Deities along with their massive army to walk on their own broken pieces to let us live not on the shelves of glass gallery but in the vast infinite of the Lord?
Nothing happens in a dream on the cozy mattress. One has to manufacture his own hammer to break his own glass menagerie followed by turning this massive glass house of glass beings down to dust. Let this hammer of courage be designed not in the cozy kitchens, but under the Blue to bring one and all into consideration. It may need a rigid toil. It may break the bone even, it may as well need resources but then the voice of man is the voice of the Lord.