Dibyendu's WallScript

Silence has its pain. Silence carries fatigue. Silence knows loneliness within its own existence.   To think in silence, one must first be silent. To shape silence as formless, in the spontaneous mind, one must enter silence.   Silence can be fierce, or still as stone. Even storms, even rage can reach silence.   Silence can be made one’s own, sharpened even through noise.   A life folded within itself, an unbroken silence— like the cemetery, day and night.

The heart rages— and so comes fear, true fear. Every day I turn the page of words, never thinking, as long as I live, that these pages would carry the weight of living itself. The thoughts that once made me forget, drowned me in the net of illusion, in the flood of speech— now leave me exhausted, silent, motionless. I fall away from the grandeur of nature, into the indifference of Dostoevsky. Is this what it means to live— wordless letters rushing endlessly, carrying dreams of a new day, promising to save the world from the hands of the ignorant? They go to seek shelter in a certain sage— one Karl Marx, sir . And fear—only fear— that in thirty-four years on the soil of Bengal, these pages have fallen, and still I never thought this would be called life. With the civilization of man we must decorate the white pages of Das Kapital , leaving behind whatever is human— feeling, in the afterlife of moral emptiness. And so the scholars return, filtering...

Like the hollow bamboo swaying, self-reliance bends— parasite plants climb, they bloom, they bear fruit, they gift fragrance to mankind, ancient joy everlasting. But on the body of the nation dust and dirt keep gathering. A single line of socialism crosses the border, rolling downhill wherever it finds a slope. Humanity’s laws of growth— walking through barren lands, far, far away, until the eye meets fields of green grain. There the breath clings, there life’s winter harvest ripens. And yet disaster lurks within. The heart has no shelter, nowhere is there an open sky, no freedom for thought. Only a hollow lament— choked down, like conquering a stony country, melting its ice bit by bit. To live parasitic is to give and take, to demand the right to land, to seize it like a nomadic tribe that conquers field after field. By shifts of place, time, and vessel, new earth is always sought— for history holds no homeland, only the envy of historians. Parasite plant...

Name-body— it moves toward an unknown aim. Like the color of a pond, like a comet in the sky, like the colorless drops of the monsoon rain.   It is only body to body, wandering in circles, held by the hand of destiny. When you walk far enough, the name feels like armor fastened to the flesh— letters etched into the bursting heart.   There— the greater one becomes, the more nameless, like the silent tree, like the countless waves of the sea. In their solitude none have ever been called by name.   When the flying spear pierced the armor and entered the heart, the difference was revealed. The witness— an invisible wind, a brief biography carved on stone, an epitaph above the grave.   Name-Body.