By Mushtaque B Barq
What a piece of work is a man! is a phrase within a monologue by Prince Hamlet in William Shakespeare’s play Hamlet . The literary rationalities that a man is bounteous with infuriates me a bit for the reason how such a piece of art cease to exist. For all one knows, the bard was fascinated by the intricacies that the Lord employed in creating a man out of a lump of resonated soil. Goosebumps only oblige when a mayoral proclamation pierces through the ribcage of a man who is on the hunt. Hunt for the precision. How can such an art piece be dumped under the friendless grave or put on the pyre to mark his end? Is there any end to anything? A comatose body of a bard is sealed under the anonymous soil who claimed what a piece of work is man!
The noble labor that emboldens such a piece of work must for a reason be marked as epitome of determination. Matter and mass, brain and branding are fashioned accordingly. What makes the piece of work so noble? Maybe the perfection in minutiae that in reciprocation grants life to the creative zeal of the artist. And when he gives up his ghost, you deposit the deceased freshly wrapped in a stainless snow-white shroud and offer homage and return. A few sighs and tears shall as a routine slip through the wayward nostrils and eye enclosed by heavy eyelashes. Is this all we offer, an earnest prayer or an official obituary in the newspaper? Every frame is subjected to be dumped. What keeps a prominent poet, a distinguished scholar, a prolific writer, an artist and a contributor alive is just a sacred bundle of printed papers we affectionately call rare books. All that we experience, which we share and cheer is a pulsating book beneath our thumping heart, floating in the sea of our consciousness and drains through the nib of our pen to draw a sketch of our ‘being.’ We write fiction, but in the disguise, the reflections and realities. A writer who knows how to create a scene, an event or a situation using the power of his imaginations only knows what a piece of work is man!
‘What a piece of work is a man’, indeed acquires a different connotation for noteworthy people. Prolific writers live for ages; they rule the hearts of their admirers, they are moral giants for the reason they serve the art even after they are sealed under the tombstones or float on the waters of the holy Ganges. They are enter through the gate of eternity and leaves a message at the gate for their cohorts to follow the suit. Those who follow knows What a piece of work is a man!
A common man dies for the reason his common sense dies before him and his grave marks his end. But a man of refined intellect knows the way to eternity. People may come and go but then who will stay amongst us in these literary forums, whom shall we candidly discuss, who shall guide the upcoming generations. Art is life, a profound secret to live after death, a cause to be fondly remembered and above all the necessary sustenance for profitable growth. Artists never die, they are sown in the soil of mortal minds, and they adequately develop wings and pollinate like a seed to find fertile soil and grows again as a tree to enrich those who willingly waiting under the shade to recall: ‘What a piece of work is a man.’
Mushtaq B.Barq is a Columnist, Poet and Fiction Writer. He is the author of “Feeble prisoner, “ Wings of Love” and many translation works are credited to the author like “ Verses Of Wahab