Dibyendu's WallScript

In the forest of penance, immersed in meditation, with the entire scripture of life within him— sits an old ascetic.   Those who do not believe in reverence look upon him as a fraud, passing by with the eyes of mockery: a naked man in the woods, a hermit in a mountain cave, madness, hypocrisy.   Yet he is a height unreachable, from whom nothing may be gained— and in this, our human failure turns into a theater of deceit. Who receives, and who must bear the weight of faith?   In our unbelieving hearts the darkness is fierce. We take vegetarians as weak, and bow, united, to the carnivorous strong.   Now penance is gone. The forest of austerity burns in lust. Wherever the eyes turn there are only dwellings, cities, relentless advertisement.   A home without walls, a life without defense— like an unguarded tree its character lies bare, bearing no weight of the world.   Sometimes, he removes his armor and gathers close to the lap of nature. The sage’s feelings— ...

I never learned to think of relationships as temporary. In the ashes of the household the wound of responsibility is tied with ribbons, a world too skilled in repairing what is broken. I turn inward, carrying myself within myself, and from this solitude a strange comfort arises. In prayers I fear to call you back, for from Nilpukur to the bus road the path made me realize: a relationship is never one’s own. From the grasp of private thought the world must be saved. Let us hold the hand of God, let us step back from this road. Breathe once, deeply, and let me live in solitude. Or else let us embrace the turbulence of the crowd. The walls still standing between us— let us call them our own, or gather our factions, march to the border, and build the walls of civilization. Let hands remain clasped in hands, even in these futile spring days. But in the hollow chest of one— the broken bond was never repaired. So we keep on living, clenching teeth against teeth, ...

At Dusk   In the dimming dusk a garland still breathes perfume, hanging for days around the throat of some unknown god.   The fragrance of its youth still lingers. A firefly drifts in to settle upon the blind god’s eyes.   Here in the city, I sit among the ruins of a nineteenth-century riverside, where scars mark the chest and there is no path left to turn back upon.   Crowds upon crowds have filled the way, endless travelers cover every trace of home. No one knows the address of this headless heart.   At the beginning of night I find myself again, in the soft wind that encircles, in a body divided from its own existence.   Between the thighs no further direction is known— does such a path still exist upon this earth? I do not know.   And so I walk along the body’s passage, towards the flickering dusk, as one mind slips away, seeking another dream.