Me then so early why came out to see a beggar at the gate. Shabby outwardly he looked yet into his blue eyes a gleam of hope I did notice. We gazed for a long time at each other’s mirror and through non verbal diction something we shared involuntarily. He stood and touched my head; me too tried my hand but denied he for reasons unknown. My pulse did sink deep into its creeks for I failed to touch that divine deity. Sensing my turbulence, he again turned to my wrinkled forehead only to ensure that something is surely missing like haphazard alphabet on akid’s note book, demanding immediate care to correct his broken words sleeping on the couch of carefree sheet of his fancy. I realized and sat down to count my innumerable follies of the past.
I drooped my head, dived into my darkest depths of my being and nothing but darkness I could discern. No ray, for the matter of fact, was on mercy to break the dense den of my recklessness. Drenched under my own shower, I raised my head a bit. Moon was still as if recording my plight, a few stars too were winking at my drooped state to mock at it. Forlorn, me stood, alone in the desert like a lonely traveler haunted by giant cactus and massive sand dunes, making him to gaze at the sky to follow the stars as an escape route. My neck ached, my head into pieces I found scattered in my hem like million broken stars to lament the loss.
Seeing me in this state, the beggar passed his soft hand over my matted hair, I felt as if the entire world was spinning around me and I stood there like a pillar unmoved. Sky above me and earth below me were exchanging wrathful words but the beggar was laughing like a thunder bolt ready to ash down any towering minaret, leaving the rest surprised and frustrated. The beggar soon recoiled and placed his heavy hand over my painful shoulder, it was again something too heavy to bear over my shoulders, much heavier than my own weight and much compact than my own complex composure.
This time the movement was ceased, stars and the moon obeyed and a cool breeze kissed my rough cheeks, soothed my wet eyes, passed over my chest like an intoxicating aroma made out of millions of roses by the artists of Abstract Orb. Each puff of this fragrant jet penetrated into my planks, turning my coerce walls into a mirror. I could see my face, my cheeks and eyes. I was different, really different. The beggar smiled and the moon disappeared and the clouds hurriedly moved to peripheries to bless the mount tops, capping them to perfection, leaving my territory under azure blue.
I touched his hand, kissed his feet and hugged him tight for some reason my involuntary move knows. He pushed open the gate and me in my own home looked like a stranger, the doors and windows looked different, the path was broken when I approached him before, but now trees, their long curved branches had woven an unending canopy to protect the traveler form sun and shade. The curtains had lost their rough and occasional frill; every corner of the room looked fresh and holy. My old books I didn’t find, my prayer rag I failed to locate, my pen but I could find well in place. Few blank pages too on my writing desk luring me to pen down what my pulse experienced, but the beggar stopped me to mention his name, I stopped my pen and looked deep into his radiant eyes, he smiled and licked my pen.
“Never mention my name” the beggar who turned into a blazing torch warned me. Before me the beggar had put up angelic attire, his eyes were brilliant, his hands golden and his forehead was oozing uncountable pearls, filling my eyes up to the brims, melting my eyes and battering my heart. The thumping was sonorous; I could hear my own beats singing in ecstasy like a whirling dervish hardly aware of the world and ether.
My room like my face had assumed a different attire, the silken curtains looked long but thin to peep, and the frill was intense like his radiant face. Once again my shoulders received a load like Himalayas, I looked into his eyes, and he passed a fleeting look dropped something in me like a seed in the soft soil. I tried to stop the angel, he but left, leaving me bruised but not before bedecking my room, my forehead and face and to my heart I did find a living tavern ready to serve one and all.
Mushtaq B. Barq is a 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 Khar” and “ Songs Of Sochkral”
