Dibyendu's WallScript

From village unto city, along the wide road’s edge, treading the clay-worn pavement for hours in a single breath, he at last arrived by the shadow of the railway station. By the tall electric wires that mark the path one may travel, he followed the unseen road toward nowhere, for the heart was neither in city nor in village. The metallic roar came rushing, like a living giant of iron and smoke, to carry away a mind already severed from its ties, to leave it at some unfamiliar doorway in the suburbs. With trembling hands he stirred the papers of poems once written, their life-force stolen, their bodies destroyed by death, so many tears had drained his strength, yet the pages had never been gathered whole. And for those unfinished leaves, he peered through strange shutters, asking—who abides in this house? With the burden of weariness upon his head, with sweat and blood wasted along the road of life, he searched and searched for the familiar dwelling— was it here, upon...

  One misted dawn there came upon me a strange and ghostly dream, and with it marched the worries that delight in breaking houses and scattering hearths, they love to fold their wings like kites that swoop from the sky and, in a single stroke, carry away both peace and faith.   I had told Santoshi long ago—within the hidden corner of the drawer rests the bank’s passbook, the coins clattering like lost time, the bonds of Kishan Vikas, the yellowed certificates, the little fragments of our earning years. The certificate of life insurance, I said, shall one day be of use, when the earth itself is washed like sand by the tide, and the imprisoned soul seeks its release like a shore swallowed by sea.   Dreams of terror disquiet man, for to move from one vessel unto another— whether by crooked means or by honest path— is alike a peril, for abysses gape on either side, and before us rise those sharpened peaks, as vultures spread their wings and descend without sound upon the fog....