I am a library book. My name is Kaliyat Iqbal. I am a beautiful picture of the great ideas of the Pakistani thinker, great poet, and philosopher Allama Muhammad Iqbal. I was printed by a famous publisher in Lahore and decorated my shop.
Many people kept coming and buying a lot of books. But I did not see anyone’s choice. Finally, one day a man bought Allama Iqbal’s writings and also bought me. Then he put me in a closet. Where many of my other sisters were also present. But none of them shone like me. I was dressed like a bride. Everyone was stunned by my beauty.
I found out later that it was a library. Because a seal was put on my forehead and I was also registered in a register with a number written on it. One day a young man came. He registered me with his name and started reading to me.
Since every word of mine was going to reach my heart and every poem was comprehensive, so he kept marking me from place to place. This thing was very offensive to me. But no one listened to my cry. He kept hitting me with the tip of a pencil. I used to open and close it carelessly. He used me so carelessly that my cover exploded. In a few days, my beauty faded. But what could I do? Where there are flowers, there are thorns.
Well, a few days later he brought me to the place where he had taken me. A few days later a decent man came. He picked me up, released me in his name, and took me with him. He was a teacher and he read to me with great love. I found great peace in his company. He would recite my poems to his disciples. My poems were a treasure trove of insight and guidance.
He put me back in my place a few days later. This period added to my fond memories. Then one day another young man came. He jerked me out of the closet. I was very upset by his behavior. He cut some of his favorite poems with scissors. I could not bear his oppression. But no one listened to my sighs and cries. The librarian put me back in the closet without looking. My heart cries tears of blood whenever I remember my glorious past.
Now my pages were slowly falling apart. My condition was getting worse and worse. People didn’t even like to look at me. A few years later, when old and torn books were sorted, I was sold along with other colleagues by a junkie. This man decorated me on the side of the road.