Mushtaque B Barq


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A thread I am, lithe and firm too. To different tools I serve with all I my might. Never overlook my delicacy. I know my trade and the prerequisite of skull of a skilful artist. A house maker needs me next to her; therefore, I enjoy a careful treatment and tent. In myriad forms I exist. My subsistence is not only mystically marked, but also metaphorically mentioned. I am what I need to be. A need to needy and luxury to bountiful. A poor man’s friend and royal want of the royal court. I serve all irrespective of sexual category, dogma, faith, constituency, magnitude and shape.

People according to their obligations bedeck me. I am a thread of a needle; I pass through that little eye of tiny frame and understand its inevitability. I do serve a surgeon. He joins the parted muscles of a sleeping giant and thus hides his ability or inability. The thread he chooses is me, known for rigidity. He uses me as per his blade that goes mercilessly across the body of a patient and then closes the mouth of the wound with the hope to see its scar. I join the chest walls and craniums, yet at the end of week, I am trimmed to leave a scar on the skin. I am the same thread that he uses to save a patient and then dumped as a bit of filth in the dustbin. Ah! Me.

I do serve a tailor. His cutting I do sew.  He relies on me, my colour and durability. He stitches freely. His needle reaches to every nook and corner and I follow his needle to make him earn. I am his tool of earning. He packs my carefully and uses ruthlessly. He knows my important, for every fabric I do present myself to suit his customer. I do taste his saliva for he often before making me to pass through that tiny eye of his tool licks me. I am his thread that knows his length. I am his length and breadth. No tailor can deny my reality. Though so tiny I am yet I bind things and thoughts, wings and wits and above all parts and parcels. I do stitch the first dress and the last as well. I measure man’s needs. He needs me from birth to death. I pass through his chester and coffin. I am knows for measurements.

To a potter I am his tool that cuts the rolling mass of clay he designs on the wheel. I detach his creativity from the moving wheel to let it dry. I am versatile. For a tailor I bind but a porter I am a razor. I know where and when to cut and when to stitch the corners. I am a sharp tool that amputates a rotten limb when surgeon’s blade fails to do so. I am tyrant when need arises and a messiah as well. I do what all I can do.

I am entertainer as well. I serve the music lovers. They fix me in their string tools. I sing, I am a born musician. I am the string of Rabab that touches human soul. I do carry in me a sea of tunes that a composer needs. I am his life. I am the poet’s craze for he touches the human heart by arranging his verses on my length. I measure his verses. I am his tool that transfers his words into melody. I am a composer’s sweet choice. I know and feel like the poet’s mood, I am aware of the fact the singer looks at, I am his lifeline. A wire that carries him to the clouds and beyond.

I am born singer. I sing in human chest. I am a pair of threads that makes every animate to live. I am inhalation and exhalation. I am infused in animates and they survive. I am cut off from the source and they cease to exist. I am his life and death. As long as I am dancing in him, he lives. The day I am rolled back on the reel of time, they are dumped under the belly of the soil. I serve the gravedigger; he takes the measurement of your chilled body before making you the morsel of merciless soil.

I am mysterious. I make a garland of roses to welcome a guest. I am the same garment that serves a dead body. I am faithful. I am buried and burnt to ashes along with the corpse. I am born with you as umbilical cord and a stitch on coffin to die with you. I too suffer like you. I too wither like a fallen leaf. My stitches fail to resist the hardhearted attitude of time. I am just a thread.















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