Dibyendu's WallScript

I have always known how to suffer in silence. I can hide my pain. Even when the heart splits into two jagged halves, my lips still keep the smile stitched tight. No one ever notices. A small, unnecessary sorrow—yet perhaps never before had it come so piercing, so absolute.   When I first saw you, your cheeks were swollen with pimples. You were not beautiful—not in the way the world calls beauty. Yet the innocence etched across your face enthralled me. All my life I had searched and wearied myself for something nameless; suddenly I felt as if I had found it—within you.   Perhaps I would never have carried any expectation to your door, if not for the stubborn endurance I have always borne toward life. And then, in that deep forest—mist-choked daylight, where no sunbeam could pierce, where silence itself grew like moss on stone—I discovered you. Shilbhadra had warned me: that jungle is a labyrinth, a chakravyuha. There is an entrance, yes—but once you walk inside, there is no ret...

He sits alone, in quiet solitude, on the balcony. Around him, the world moves on— days unroll as they always do, mornings spilling into weary afternoons, time dragging its wounded limbs. He never imagined life would pass in such despair, each day dissolving into the sameness of the last.   The rush of time, the weight of progress, is like a river striking against a frail earthen dyke— the banks collapse, homes are torn apart, and life is scattered into exile. Days come, days go, the body weakens, even as the world pretends to flow forward. Is it motion, or only a metaphor that deceives the senses?   Once there was a heart that lingered on the banks of the Padma, restless, grieving, searching for permanence. Now the shores have drifted away— or perhaps it is only he who has grown old. Locusts swarm upon the modern mind, gnawing at its spirit, while nostalgia clings like a fever.   He remembers being a migrant soul, an exile returning from the other Bengal, bringing family ...

Indifferent, I drift through life, sliding along its edge, secretly hidden within the womb of darkness.   Here, the famished beasts tear and claw apart, as swarms of fleeting insects ignite a blood-red fire.   This pain— one day I will repay it. I will hurl my cold, blue blood upon the earth, a curse of flames.   One day I shall shatter your detached pride, your arrogant departure, your illicit, whorish gaze— I will smother it in the darkness of destruction.   Where no tenderness dwelt, where you erased all ancient divisions, when this fugitive life expires I will wash away every stain of sin, blood, and fat.   Detached, primal, I remain alive, friendless, abandoned of love. My hands, my heart— burned by fire, tormented in silence, anguish unspoken.   For long, for ages, harder than the hardest stone, my fists have clenched. You too, be prepared— for a new day, for the inevitable jihad. ...