Dibyendu's WallScript

Too many words— I cannot bear them. Darkness pleases me more, sitting alone with an old desire for quiet.   Too many voices— I cannot endure them. I search, almost to death, for a friend who will sit with me, face to face, without speech.   Complete surrender, solitary practice— the language of joy slowly fades away.   Disciplined air, a portrait of sunset, rises in fierce lament. Mute, I sit and think.   What need to know the depths of water’s story? What use in this chatter of restless curiosity?   Can you sit before me— speechless— for a century?   Bitter grief turns corrupt beneath the weight of relationships built only of words.   At the clang of language, institutions tremble, their wires snap.   What if no words at all? Only eyes locked with eyes, lifelong, between you and me.   Silent love-speech— in the courtyard of a new sun, quietly, we love.   If words fall away, let bridges rise in thought, let all conversation be understood...

A budget was announced.   The old woman, wrapped in a greasy quilt, slipped into the shadowy room by the roadside. Outside, winter pressed heavily; winds whistled through the city’s hollow bones. She left the entire room aside and curled herself into a corner against the wall. No one in this world knew whether she had eaten tonight or not. Perhaps only God, in His secrecy, knew such details. The moment she lay down, the old woman was absorbed into deep sleep. Beneath the quilt there was no stir of movement. From the outside one might have mistaken her for some inanimate thing, covered with a discarded old blanket and thrown away in a dark corner. Believe firmly—it was the merciful Lord Himself who had designed this illusion. In the budget it was promised that in the next five years, fifteen million jobs would be created.   On the main road of the city stood a two-storeyed, well-decorated house. The front room on the ground floor was being demolished to make way, perhaps, for s...