Dibyendu's WallScript

All subjects of the Eastern king are mortal, yet the king himself had died long ago— still he leaves his shadow upon the throne, still he lends his hand to the business of the realm.   But deaths crowd daily at the palace gates, and the work of rule grows heavy, for fear of death rules the people. The learned summon speechless phantoms, the unlettered elders call from the abyss, and the king—dead yet not dead— conducts his royal labor amidst the dark, with half a belly fed, in seas of law and knowledge, in rivers of blood, his conscience trembles, while the people are deceived once more.   Those who wipe their tears, wash their dusty hands, and labor still— they too must one day die. For who is immortal, and where, and when? Each day survival is itself a death, struggle and protest the rhythm of life. Better perhaps to die a little every day than once for all, for who became immortal by one death alone?   The king dies every day, dispensing knowledge even in decay. You re...

In the attic room, while trying to catch a pigeon from the ceiling, an upturned pin pricked Tukus’s foot. The day before, when Didi was kissing her Mathematics tutor, Tukus had suddenly barged into the room. That sloppy, slurping kiss, and then the teacher’s desperate grappling at her chest—clawing, tearing, as if he could rip her breasts apart. Tukus marched straight in, his voice heavy with gravity: “Hey Didi, what’s going on here? Wait—I’m telling Mother.”   He bolted from the room, Didi racing after him. “You have no shame,” said Tukus. Didi twisted his ear sharply: “I’ve told you not to come into my room. Idiot.”   Tukus shot back, “What were you doing with Sir? Wait till Father comes, I’ll tell him.”   Didi softened. “Oh, nonsense. A cockroach had crawled on my chest—that’s why Sir touched it. And even if he did place his hand there—what of it? Would you like to try?”   Didi took Tukus’s hand and pressed it against her chest. Just then, the pigeon flew off from...