I Am Just A Thread (part two)
Saints know the secret of my sincerity. I serve them too in their privacies. They make a rosary out of me. I am their need. I rest on their worship mats like a supplication in Heaven. Every devotee pays heed to my being sacred. The pearls that I hold, the rush I count, the secret they share and shape, I am their confident companion. I take different forms, at times a nylon line to pass through the narrow lanes of a pearl to stand witness of a devotee when he recites what is being suggested and at times just a feeble thread that usually breaks with the rush and rough handling. I am lucky unlike the man for being used at Temples, Mosques, Gurudwaras and Churches irrespective of my colour, creed, caste and religion. I serve all. I dissolve disparities.
I serve sisters on a special occasion when they tie me on the wrists of their brothers. They call me Rakhi. I convey love and concern. On those corpulent wrists, I sign a bond of love and an agreement of trust. People decorate me in the best possible way to represent their feeling to their dear ones. Brothers respect me and sisters deem my delicate skin as a symbol of strength. I mystify mirth when tied around the wrists. Brothers wear me as a blessing, yet at times youngsters use me just as a tradition. I carry subtle sentiments that nurses love to the one who deserves it. I wear warmth to melt malice. I am a powerful tool of transition. I am a great catch. I am a binding force, a cohesive entertainment and harmonious aroma that connects one and all.
I do carry on my shoulders the weight of blessings when tied around the neck as an amulet. I too serve those who tie me across their bodies as Zonar. I am a wish tag tied tight on the reeling of a shrine. I am what I am known to all. I play different roles. I am a wish of a mother, need of a sister, a dream of accomplishment and above all a healing touch. I am just a thread.
Seriously I hold secrets. People make belts of me to hold their lowers. They trust me. Yet at times I am being ravished like a forlorn virgin by the men in animal form. Their nastiness detaches me from the secrets I hold. They know no respect. For them, I am just a thick thread just to be ripped apart to satiate their lust. They pull the skin of my confidence and I, unfortunately, stand witness of their brutality. They spoil my sanctity and seriousness. I wish to be metallic made to safeguard the secret I am being entrusted with, never to be surpassed by those who contaminate me. My delicacies on such occasions hardly matter. I drop my long slim neck in shame when my frailty fails to defend a woman against assault. I fail to protect the fort of her inviolability. Sorry!
My ‘Second Coming’ is hell tight. I take the form of a noose. I squeeze the neck of a reckless rascal. I show them the might of my threads. For my flaws, I am being tortured, but for my strength, I torture beyond resistance. I stand as a tool of trust to terminate the culprits. My firm grip is the tyrant’s choicest instrument for his wrath only relies on my muscle that breaks the neck of a heartless goon. I take revenge for being ravished beyond repairs. I spare my animal form for those who know nothing of this sort. I hold them till their two strong threads surrender before my might and then I pull them down to the dust only to be dumped forever. I am obedient to the law and disobedient to those who violate it. I have dual nature. I am a friend to those who know my worth and foe I stand for those who ignore my cruelty. Beneath my humble heart, a current of pitiless plight is stored to deal with situations. Though so thin, yet steadfast in my approach.
Man misaal -e- lala-e- Sehrastam
Darmiyan-e mehfil –e- tanhastum
