Dibyendu's WallScript

A Death   Upon the blazing pyre a fortunate man has crossed the fence of Time.   Between these two lives— the river’s near shore and the far— how thin is the parting? Slowly, with weariness shed, he leaves behind a tired body, arriving, stern and naked, into Eternity.   Yet upon a corpse how long the memories cling: kinship, love, the illusions of possession— son, daughter, beloved, greed, fear, objects of fragile delight.   The dreams of decades, the old chronicles, still flow along mind’s corridor— a lamp-lit table, a hidden photograph, a book left in an iron cupboard, its margin marked red beneath a line, still quivering with unrest.   Customs, unquestioned faiths, the logic he obeyed, affections, intoxications, the lattice of truth and falsehood, the codified laws he lived by, the methods of survival he practiced— all dissolve.   Yet in him remained a vast expanse: an infinite storehouse, an unwritten novel of knowledge, of experience.   And all of...

They are gone now. And what remains— a residue of weariness, a shadow of joy where once the days were noisy with stories, colored with laughter, with the ecstasy of being together. For a long time now I have not dreamt any impossible dream. The boys— they were kind, the girls— like green leaves of spring. Their laughter, their eyes, brimmed with visions. It was an unbroken coexistence, an unstoppable rhythm of light and vitality, that day, here, before it unraveled. One by one they departed, pressed by life, scattered to its edges, some vanishing altogether into the blind road of fate. Today I recall— those days were good. Moments passed swiftly, in smiles and play. Now they are gone, and my chest holds only emptiness. The garden chairs lie vacant, collecting drops of dew. No longer do I care to look upon the beauty of this world. Eyes remain, but sight does not. They are gone.

By accident I stumbled upon a torn page of an old poem.   From its brittle script I plucked a few dry letters and dipped them into ink.   The color was green— it must have been spring at the edge of the earth, or perhaps the weary courtyard of some great road.   Exhausted, I watched those jaundiced letters flare, speaking now and then like sudden witnesses.   Rain fell upon the tree, its head bowed. On Dharmatala pavement, carrying a weight of pain, I walked— and there she was.   Dressed, adorned, alone at the bus stand.   Today the ink was deep blue. I was ready— though middle-aged, with wings of pain outstretched in secret.   Only the colors had vanished from memory. No wish remained to write another poem.   I slipped past quietly, without speaking, and escaped—   leaving behind the torn page I had suddenly found.

I would speak to someone of what I once witnessed. Those who loved me— they fought with all their strength to shield my honor.   Long have I sat reflecting: near ones remained near, in thought’s very marrow thought itself lingered.   And after many years I saw again those for whom I alone was provision, who pressed me to their chests to preserve my fragile life.   What is there to think? Better to speak to no one. Falsehood and truth alike— those who loved gave everything.   In darkness I could sense their shadows hovering close, so close, beside me, their love— false, true, both.   Yet thought itself remains a cavern of night. Sitting silently, I lift my head and see, at the threshold, a man who despises my very existence— yet never failed to save me.   To remain silent— that is natural. Love, trust, necessity— all demand silence.   And still I wonder: perhaps, another day, he who has no need of me, whom I myself never needed, will emerge again from h...