Dibyendu's WallScript

Krishna Angelina, I will leave— wherever my eyes decide to wander. The same eyes that found you once beneath the martyrs’ monument, where a single word could cost a life, where desire bled into dream, and pain returned like an old lover.   No! I come back, pressing my eyes against yours, sharpening memory like an unused, rusted sword. I will strike— somewhere, in rage. Or perhaps, briefly, I will only lose myself.   Krishna Angelina, I will leave— wherever my eyes decide to wander. Because here, in this country of place and time and choice, I have already lost too much.   Your eyes— their call was a theft. Jealousy carried off my heart. And you— you spoke with an unfamiliar boy, closer than a whisper, while the astonished earth pretended not to watch.   Krishna Angelina, I will leave— wherever my eyes decide to wander. A sharp blade hidden, in Othello’s fury, I may lay it down somewhere, or keep it swinging from my side— my ancient Kurukshetra.   Or in some othe...

You did not choose me. On the riverbank, the young ascetic gathered, and you walked away with him. I remain— alone, inside this vast solitude of city and survival, bread and cloth and burden. At times, I wish— perhaps we might meet again, perhaps your shameless eyes will signal love once more. Behind your gaze, society guards its suspicion. You, the nun of your own vows, will surely understand. Your heart— a startled Vidura’s eyes reached it once. But those eyes turned me selfish, proud. Still I dared to look into yours, to hold them with mine, and in that glance—sin was born. You read the language of my eyes and drifted away. Through subtle gestures, elusive and cruel, I tried to convince myself— and in this way I have been deceived for what feels like eternity. You left, hand in hand, with the frank ascetic youth. I remained by the shore, my fading mind thick with conspiracy, my eyes fierce with pain, my soul captive to waiting. I will see you again, in thi...

So many more days will pass in this weariness, in sorrow. The eyes with which I search for you, with which I have scoured the world, hide so many tears— thirteen hundred million seas would seem smaller.   I have not walked to the Bodhi tree of Sarnath, nor the birthplace of Ram. In the depths of your eyes ideals rest immovable— ancient, severe, hard as scripture.   And still the chest burns, blood spilling upon the barren dunes of sorrow, storms scattering like endless lines of sand. In the dense shade of the banyan, in a tired afternoon, are you still as beautiful as I once saw you, in the city of Janaka?   Here I live, in this city of decay and fire. Your gentle smile— a serene hermit by a silver lake. I have forgotten when I last knew if I was alive, or simply entombed inside my own corpse.   This corpse I will drag like Parthasarathi with his chariot, like the arrows that rose from the belly of Bhishma, toward the shameless cremation grounds of night. Or like Kar...