Dibyendu's WallScript

Between physics and God lie seven twists— and I have never stopped to think about choosing for the sake of goodness. Conflict and charity rule side by side, while I lived in careless ease, a slave to my own nerves, my spine still upright.   In the worst of times, there is always a cage to be found for the lonely traveller. Science was the wrong road for me; better to borrow justice from a benevolent God— and move with ease from love to renunciation.   For at the very beginning, there is no one, save the living body of adaptation. Nature does not dwell in the depths of anyone’s eyes. A woman—painted on a beachside canvas— forgets the grief of emptiness in her graceful unfolding.   Since the dawn of time, minds have been spread like nets of hatred across stagnant ponds. Sunlight devoured, the horizon etched on open plains— some die, some stay in the household.   As Kalidasa once hung from a branch, I too hang in the web of dreams. This stran...

Go— (if you must) to that far corner of the wind. Going—coming— paper coins in a marketplace that never opens.   Return— is not a door you simply walk through. No— it is Aruni, spine arched, holding the flood like a heartbeat; it is Uddālaka’s gaze— water brimming in the cup of his hands, trembling for ages.   The price? It lives at the far end of the road, where dust is older than our names. Yes— the road stops there. No— you cannot come back clean.   Once— God leaned into the human soul, asked for the way home. He carried rules like roses, ledgers like love letters.   We closed the gate— politely, firmly— and left Him standing in the dusk, with all the returning undone.

Last day of April— a bunch of unlucky guys hanging out under the shade of a devilishly lazy satinwood tree, stuck in that miserable human queue.   Over there, the Home Guard’s doing his sweaty push-ups for some “physical test.” The boys light up cheap smokes, spit out curses for the system— nothing poetic about it.   Down the road, here comes the snake charmer, hauling out his pitiful animals like a freak parade— half-naked kid, maid in a faded frock, tagging along.   The drum goes dug-dugi-dug and the monkey show hits the block. Jump, jump, jump— right on top of each other, ’ cause the boss says so. The crowd? They eat it up.   Meanwhile, the hopeless boys hang off the bus step, one foot dangling. Snake and mongoose go at it, while the charmer’s flute spins some sad, magic tune.   Some girls—wandering nowhere in particular— keep their old dreams tucked inside their chests. We roll over on our pillows, pretending not to see.   So much howling in this world,...

The static frame erases itself— and the moment begins to move. I go nomad with brush and ink, forget every fixed thing. I am the killer— of thought, of reason— ringing the death-drum, drunk on neural ecstasy, both hands raised in a funeral march. Which instincts walked past me? Who said I must be a wanderer? This art will not stay. In film—when, where— I was their charioteer. One pot for birth, death on the riverbank. On the canvas— a dangerous velocity, brush pushed by a drunken lover. Where is the cool water? Where they once spat, once hurled stones, now the river flows on both sides. From this bank to the other— a seagull arcs in flight. Like the sun, I grow thirsty for something unnamed. This— the reins on my eyes, life slipping here, a sailboat summoned on the chest of a tide. Here— pinned in the frame, the flag of still-unstill time. Through the speed of sight I call for revolution— or maybe for a mind that will not ache, a flute of thought that ...