Dibyendu's WallScript

By chance, mistaken, wandering wrong, I stumbled again upon that road of childhood— the crooked lane, long forgotten, suddenly returned like a spark to a weary mind.   Yet now it is changed. At the end once stood my beloved, her quiet figure pacing the rooftop in silence— that house still stands, but the tender terrace, the spell of love, is gone.   On this side I remain, a pauper of memory, wandering in search of what can never return.   Each face I meet is new, each manner unfamiliar. Perhaps they think of me as I think of myself— a needless presence, a relic of the past, an ancient stranger out of place.

The marvelous days of human life all begin on Monday. Leaving their homes, they move onto the streets of the city. Into the bustle of everyday life.   Sanjoy has no bustle at all. He has gone and stood beneath his beloved tree. With his satellite camera. It is not a banyan tree from whose body baskets of roots descend on all sides. Just an ordinary coconut tree. It does not provide a very good roof above his head. Yet, compared to other coconut trees, this tree is short in height. How that came to be—after much thinking—no clue could be found. A fault in the genes of its predecessors may be one of the chief causes.   But the roots of this tree are quite strong. They keep pressing ever deeper into the earth. A little widespread. Clinging to the ancestral homestead of forefathers. It is an invisible duel of life with death.   Here, every day at ten in the morning, Sanjoy stops with his camera. Whoever it may be, if one comes here, one’s thoughts, one’s movements, one’s man...

A rounded nose, an oval head, a naked body with a humble spread, a ragged cloth across his chest, a darkened face where sternness rests, a jaw severe with power untold, a voice that rings with manhood bold.   In the land of wisdom’s flame, after peace had made its claim, youths approached with reverent eyes, pressing against the temple’s side. They bowed, they touched his feet with dust, their garments smeared in humble trust. “ O Master, teacher, guide divine,” they whispered low with voice of wine.   He smiled a little, spoke with ease: “ I am but a wanderer of worldly seas. I came to this land and saw a beast, a serpent of time that never ceased— sleeping, coiled, with endless pride, guarding your culture, fangs spread wide.   Your laws, your morals, vainly pressed, as if from thought mere waters leapt. The serpent slips into its hole, lamenting truth it cannot hold.”   The youths replied: “O sage, O guide, the pain of justice is strong, not lied. We look upon you...