Dibyendu's WallScript

The New Face of Bengal ( Exiled Jibanananda)   I saw Bengal’s face once. Now— only the mask of men, ashen, leafless.   At midnight a jackfruit tree— its branch dangling— not fruit, but a man’s body, spinning slowly in the wind.   Scholars in silence. Professors sipping tea, poets turning pages of emptiness. In the thickets of snake-plants the shadows of brokers lengthen— in alleyways, clubs, parliament halls.   Teachers sleep hungry under the winter sky. The farmer gnaws at air, ties a rope of silence, hangs from the granary beam. Humanity’s pulse sinks into the riverbed.   I have seen: educated boys digging soil with rusted spades, their futures drowned in coal pits, their lungs coughing up centuries of dust.   Beside golden rice-fields stand a thousand sly merchants with their mouths red from stolen harvest.   I have seen: labourers tearing off their names, boarding night-trains to nowhere, their children left weeping beside broken tin roofs.   ...

Not every suicide you can see with your eyes. Not every suicide gets a postmortem!   That boy—scored ninety-four in Madhyamik. Still ran to basic training, so the Primary School job don’t slip away. Silent Suicide!   Boys and girls with Master’s degree, waiting, waiting like thirsty chatak birds— crossed the border of age. Suicide in Broad Daylight! But no postmortem was done.   That fresh twenty-two-year-old, proud B.Tech in his pocket, applied in thirty-two private firms for a 4,000-rupee job. Now gaming PUBG in tea stall. Happy Suicide! Suicide in Delight!   The farmer who grew potatoes on three bigha, sold at five rupees kilo— today buys at thirty-five a kilo. He decides, “No more farming next year.” Clean Suicide!   Four, five hospitals—he knocked all doors. No bed for him anywhere. An eighteen-year-old left, slapped the whole System on its face. Meanwhile, intellectuals swallow cyanide to “protect” themselves. Open Suicide!   And yes— there will be po...