Dibyendu's WallScript

Scene 1 – Country Home, Dawn   The first light spills across a courtyard of soft grass, damp with night’s breath. Bare feet press into it, wiping away the dust before stooping under a low doorway. The hut is small, its clay walls warm from yesterday’s sun, its air steeped in the smell of soil and river wind.   From beyond, the Padma calls—its broad waters a silver ribbon in the pale dawn. Steamers wait at the bank, their iron chains sunk deep into the muddy char. Fishermen’s hands knot and pull, voices mingling with the low hum of water against wood.   A sudden rush—people clambering aboard, their movements urgent but familiar. And there, among them—Ratu Didi. Her red-and-white sari, frayed at the hem, swings with each step. She turns briefly, a flash of dark eyes and the curve of a smile. Beside her—Raju, Dulal, Khant, Mukunda, Bonhari, Ershad, Broj, Murari, Chapa, Jasmin— a litany of names that even time cannot erase.   Scene 2 – The Green Horizon   Ou...

From here the moon climbs, over the orange-smeared clouds. Tonight, Venus burns— like a Lakshmi owl’s eyes.   Evening and darkness have crossed the far hills, and over the calm sea, stars scatter like broken porcelain. The sky turns violet. Night settles in the garden. Love for the sea wakes in the chest.   Only the jasmine’s scent, only the heat-sweat of the night. Ocean to ocean— how silent war can be. Where the lotus blooms, there is life-giving.   Thin Tagar flowers wake in yellow dreams. The last moon of the night—strange, soft. I will be there with you, where no one sees, eyes closed in trust.   Where on the sandbank addition and subtraction are done, the violet waves retreat. The waterline beckons, kingfisher whales call.   You sit waiting— no place left to float. Far away stands Death, leaning on an ostrich wing.   Thirst has lodged in the chest today. The horizon line holds its breath, grief in the thirst. On a shepherd boy’s lap I will take this ...

The silent servant stands motionless, This delayed land of Bharat Gazes on with a faded smile. The air has frozen still, From behind the clouds Thunder murmurs. I press my ear to hear— The herald of the coming storm.   The wind smells of gunpowder, Life’s breast is pitted with craters, Humanity locked in battle with man. The boatman waves from afar, The vessel rises in the heaving waters.   In the certain darkness, The royal decree barred our way, Yet in our silence A sudden gust rises— The conch shell sounds in protest.   This stillness is only a pause; No journey will halt forever. On the dry porch, In a storm of dust, I sit with bowed head and listen To the death-cry of the bamboo grove, The drumbeat of the storm approaching.   Still, there is more to say— The servant holds A secret pact with an unseen band. The people roar, The day of shame arrives; Yet the rulers sit, Watching and listening in silence, Their gaze stretching to the horizon— An endless lament, The...

You wanted joy, loved the sun— that first time we met, winter fog lay heavy over a brittle day.   Rootless hours, solitary and starved, fell hard in love. A timid heart, wobbling at the edge of newness, listening to fairy tales of pleasure and pain, carrying the weight of experience not yet lived.   Winter slipped away. If love were spring, I wore it like powdered color— we walked close, down distant roads in imagined cities, through conversations made only of silence.   Far out, by the beach, slums clung to the shore— fishermen waiting in stillness, nets bent like restless fish in the pull of the tide.   There was too much— too many wounds, too much hunger. We skipped the barriers, trusting God like a dare.   I thought love meant laughter in the fields, barefoot farmers tracing narrow borders toward the harvest. But it wasn’t true.   That path— just a crowd, driven by rivalry and self-importance, faith drained to zero. In spring I learned I was a beggar, a...

Where I have built my home is where I dream with others. Here, there is no magic realism— and if you ask me, Can it be so? I would answer: How shall you dwell with us, when once you thought death itself need not come for me?   When thought grows distant, a bird alights upon the window. When the heart draws near, the mountains withdraw. How strange— the temple flags in the east are flying, while my gaze is fixed upon the southern hills.   At day’s end, the western wind brings trade; in the forest the deer breathe long sighs. Alas, disaster— those who raised walls upon the riverbank now have dead snails fallen at their feet.   The birds’ craft— their planes of air— move with the wind. They who have borne pain and worn the ochre robe of detachment must pay the toll of time— give it its rightful honour.   Paper boats are lost in the summons of life; in the forest’s lovely bend adornments stand in ordered rows. Who plays at games with words filled with metre? Their lives ...