Dibyendu's WallScript

Fire—stay well, love the wind that makes your flame leap, and whatever dark you dwell in— hold it close.   I too warm the ones who come at midnight, half-burned, their bodies dripping counterfeit love. If fire takes them, where will sorrow find its home?   Those who lie down beside me, whose lecherous lips I trace with lust, whose bodies, godlike in their hunger, I pay for with bursts of flame— this bodiless love you gave me, others will give, others have given, and still more want to give.   I have stroked light into them, and like you— consumed to ash— I light the lamp.   Love the changing of bodies; those who burn like blind moths, who come to taste desire’s sap, die, love, yet leave behind the scars of burnt flesh— your design, your leaping tongue of fire.   The one who loves you holds close as a lover in a clasp, feeling the scorch along his skin.   Fire—you, like me, are indifferent; my metallic heart bears your scar-marks, your steady mockery. Your p...

The moment before leaving for the office is always a mess — the doorway, the rush for the public bus, a half-wave to the wife, sometimes forgetting to kiss the kids. Off I go, in daylight, through familiar streets, towards familiar pain, a member of the government employees’ union. Being late for the office doesn’t sting as much as Shibu-da’s tea with sugar too high or too low — that rattles me. I hurry, I bruise people on the way, God knows how many relationships have gone stale. Mejokaka warned me: these are careless times. Who knows which houses store so much pain? Or maybe I carry it myself — I’m alone too.   Mrs. Dastidar’s tight blouse — her breasts bound and high — I see them in idle moments. Sometimes I think how a certain depth of cleavage can raise gooseflesh on a body. If a stranger called to me from the street, would I come to the window? I never imagined so. Loneliness has broken my manhood the way drudgery breaks the body. The heart stays tired.   Once I slipped ...

Climbing the mountain’s winding breast, I wrap my memoirs in winter’s shawl— held fast, unyielding, nothing lost. A few pages in the diary, some words, some dream, the wilful pledges of the restless heart— for love is in the nature of the people, and if wrapped well and guarded close, it is not easily lost.   When something is gone, it may yet return; the sea gives back all things, and rivers run down from the mountain’s crest. In the ancient torrent, no memory is lost— all remain in the house of the past, flowing along this river-road where life has drifted by.   To find them again is a struggle, yet they arrive at other ghats of offering, nourished by the company of new joys and sudden thrills. Those I abandoned long ago now build a house with the lonely mountain girl.   On the riverbank, in the land of sand, dressed as a farmer of fertile fields, I lost her— I know not when. Today is the day of broken dreams; on the dry stone I call to her, and dash my head in grief. ...