Dibyendu's WallScript

Not all are poets. A few are. It is now the year 2001. According to the census, the population of the earth has crossed six billion. The proportion of men and women on this planet stands nearly equal: three billion men, three billion women. By an old adage, every one of those three billion men has, at least once in his life, written a poem. Which is to say — all men are poets.   Perhaps the reader’s mind will at once raise a question: but all men in the world are not literate; how then could they possibly write poetry? And yet I have deliberately used the word written, though it is not in the strict sense of pen and paper. Even a man who cannot hold a pen may still create a poem. For truth is this: every human being is born with a heart, and where there is a heart there must also be poetry. No one can escape this. From the early rehearsals of life to its ripened fullness, this poetic pulse glimmers within every man at some hour or another.   Be that as it may, it is wiser not ...

At a lecture in memory of Satyajit Ray, Derek Malcolm—film critic of The Guardian and director of the London Film Festival—once narrated a revealing story. After his speech, the audience began bombarding him with questions. One of them was: “Do you believe critics always judge filmmakers fairly?”   His answer was candid—“No. A critic cannot always evaluate an artist with complete justice.” And then he shared his story. At Cannes, he was tasked with selecting films to showcase at the London Festival. He watched film after film, day and night, until exhaustion dulled his senses. Into this haze, a debut director’s work appeared on screen. After forty minutes, Malcolm, fatigued beyond patience, walked out. He did not select the film for London.   Later, when the same film was commercially released in London, Malcolm went to see it again. This time, with rested eyes, he discovered its brilliance. He admitted, without hesitation, that he had committed a grave mistake by rejectin...

I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; ... I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind, In balance with this life, this death. — W. B. Yeats   At the dawn of this catastrophe, his existence has turned back upon itself. Returned are the burdens of anguish, despair, and vexation. Now he must live in his own way. Indeed, he must live alone. His agitated badge will speak only of knowledge and its expositions.   I sit, wrapped in the pride of a teacher, ever since then. Day passes into night, night again into day. Two indistinct hands fall upon my knees. Between knowing and doing lie many bridges—yet none are seen. In every household, people silently prepare their Lakshmi-worship. Each goes toward the full moon in pursuit of their own happiness. My still, unmoving posture continues.   To gain Vedic knowle...

I often recall that grotesque old man who lived three thousand years ago. His head was bald, his face round, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets, his nose broad and flat, and the skin seemed to hang loose from his cheeks. To look at him, one would never mistake him for a philosopher. Ordinary people, upon seeing him, would have thought he was no more than a common porter or a servant. Yet he was born in that very land where the gods were believed to dwell. Draped in a shabby cloak that hung awkwardly over his ungainly frame, he wandered the streets. Children, mistaking him for a lunatic, hurled stones and pebbles at him. For though his body walked the earth, his eyes betrayed the truth—that he had never truly dwelt here below. And so when ordinary men mocked him as a madman, he would not even glance their way.   What we know of his life comes only through the words of his disciples, preserved above all in his philosophy. In those days, a band of curious Athenian youths followed h...