Dibyendu's WallScript

What a strange and precise unreality! What a tumultuous mixture of frenzy, vitality, and melancholy at its very core. Scorched in the sharp blaze of the sun, parched and blazing, or stinking in heaps of rotting garbage. Flooded with human throngs, mingled with piles of food, where the heroes of Nabanna share scraps with stray dogs. On the sidewalks of Calcutta, someone stumbles upon an abandoned handbag and becomes a millionaire. Another, returning weary from office, is struck down by a reckless car and dragged to the brink of death. One rushes in search of another hurrying forward. One, lost in sorrow, walks slowly, no one knows where — and no one cares to ask.   The footpath entered my mind one day after school. In those days, Calcutta’s alleys and lanes did not yet have these cement-laid pavements. Pedestrians moved along both edges of the tar roads. To save bus fare, many a time we friends walked home together along the sidewalks. Walking, we swore eternal friendship with one a...

God did not send him into the world to be a poet. Upon his ignoble mind, laying her hand in false benediction, a corpulent woman bestowed her curse of blessing: be unbearable. Drink without restraint, swear loudly, scream with abandon, revel in animal joy, become brute and bony like a creature of sheer vertebrae. Do everything under the sun, but for heaven’s sake, do not write poetry. So wrote John Dryden in one of his satirical verses. And whenever I look upon the state of contemporary Bengali literature today, Dryden’s mocking lines return to me with unnerving relevance. Why is it that I stand opposed to poetry festivals or story festivals, yet speak in favor of film festivals, drama festivals, recitation festivals? Why do I resist government interference in the arts? Why do I believe that art, and the artist, must never sit in the counting house of industrialists, tallying profit and loss outside the realm of beauty’s purpose?   The festivals of slogan-shouting, factionalism, an...

The unruly wind from the land of winter drifts in by late afternoon, brushing the skin now and then. Yet the atmosphere of our city life produces a fevered turbulence, warmer and more agitated than any natural heat. On a spring evening, when that vagabond wind from the cold country touches the body, it feels as though love itself lays its caress upon all the hostile realities, the trickery, the spoiled rhythms of living. A tremor of romance stirs within. The ruined city suddenly appears innocent. The scent of palash blossoms unfurls the mind like a blooming field. Inwardly I grope for an anchor, some handhold of solace. The thought of a woman crosses the heart. And just then—the acrid fumes of burnt petrol, coupled with the demonic roar of machinery, desecrate the moment.   “Why do you speak so much? Be silent. Become soundless.” — Shankha Ghosh   This spring, the sunlight carries a sharpness, yet from time to time, dark heavy clouds gather in the sky. One night, quite late,...

" I believe that every modern state in the present world is misguided, driven astray; and that without a radical transformation of those constitutions and a profound application of ideals, this delusion cannot be corrected. After long observation, I have been compelled to conclude that without philosophy there can be no hope of justice or equality in society. Humanity shall not escape from this mounting chaos until true philosophers seize the reins of governance, or by some miraculous enchantment, political leaders are transformed into genuine philosophers."   Thus, in his advanced years, Plato explained in his celebrated Seventh Letter that political authority must be wedded to philosophy, otherwise the very path of rightful governance remains blocked. Whether it is the Platonic statecraft or the Platonic love, both are anchored to a single, luminous idea: Utopia.   This most ancient word in human thought has been given three classic definitions in the lexicon:   A place...