Dibyendu's WallScript

Who am I? Who am I? For endless time I have asked— digging through veils of doubt, yet finding only absence.   History dissolved behind the mask of manhood; I forgot that eternity outlives my pride.   I loved myself too much, like Narcissus forever gazing into a glass of water, believing the reflection a destiny.   In that blind trust I marched ahead— past the impossible, draped in the robes of greatness, from exile to homeland, from altar to chariot, from the ordained path to the scholar’s pedestal.   Yes, I told myself, I am the chosen one, nature’s favored son, an Alexander, a Napoleon.   For years I lived with the weight of this arrogance, fighting the fight of living, walking far, through victories, through failures, through deserts of desire.   I never truly gained— only fed the hunger of being the greatest.   Then, in the thick soil of struggle, life’s hardness pressed. Before the mirror, I remembered my name.   And the day came: a race of ...

There was a script upon the brow, a bird of pain, exhausted now, its feathers blue with endless flight, it circled poles of northern night.   The sun lay split by sharpened steel, beneath the dunes the corpses sealed; old branches whispered carrion song, the vulture’s hymn had lingered long.   “ Water—give water, Satyaki, here!” A desert opens in the seer; cold sweat ignites the nerves of flame, a mirage blurs the sacred name.   My sins have turned humanity bare, like summer streams that vanish there. O Fox Ascetic—see how far life staggers beneath its civil scar.   Why climbs the tree of culture vain, if spider-sand still knots the chain? Execution grounds at dawn were raised, promises lost in twilight’s haze.   The vultures fled the city’s breath, they seek the battlefield of death; their hunger carves through flesh and bone, in sands where I must die alone.   My mind in terror, heart in flight, the body learns its means to fight. Fox Ascetic walks the wo...

Day or night, the same words circle, colliding— each phrase pushing, each phrase striking, until someone slips, and another’s future is born.   To live, one must fight, having entered this country by birth, dragged into every battle, forced to carry oneself only for oneself.   Beneath the lampstand sits the ash-covered one, alone. And alone he walks the path, evading all— the fraud, the blow, the endless trickery of days.   Morning, evening, twilight— the trap of words surrounds, the riddles of the world entangle life entire.

Unborn time slips into undergarments, caught in the net of heavy sleep— the poem lies bare, its chest exposed. From ancient ages past it returns, parched, resting its head upon a thirsty breast, building a house of longing. Advancing time— at the grave’s edge, wordless fury searches for the hook of a blouse. Danger hovers here: Chaitra birds flutter in flocks, between new leaves, blind summer flies scatter. Crisis of existence— a fragile safety zone, wandering between ice and fire. Blow against blow, we ignite ourselves, burn to ash, fall mute in smoke. All things begin. All things end. Between them I sit, watching— death staring both ways. Our season of crisis: mouths strapped in latex, humanity collapsing, lost in the theater of solitary pleasure.

A dry afternoon. The pond holds the sky’s clear image, waiting for ripples, for a breath of motion. From afar I saw your transparent blue eyes— a vision that crossed from this shore to that. Nothing left to interpret. And who dares to say: stop, pause here a moment? No one. We no longer stand still for anyone. We move forward— unstirred. The pond now silent, its water unshaken. Skin smooth as lotus leaves, emotionless, hollow of heart. In Baishakh heat, fights and quarrels flare. Our blind eyes see no inner life, no family, no kin— all gaze fixed, like a heron-monk by the pond’s edge. I thought there was tenderness in those eyes— but beneath the water fish shadows trembled. And when my gaze fell into yours, motionless, confessing love, suddenly the heron’s beak pierced downward. A single wave rose. The killing took place. And then silence— the stillness of a cremation ground. Those clear blue eyes— of the killer. We do not stop anymore; each walks...

The play is not over! Do not leave the stage! The temple burns— watch the tyrant’s fall!   Their fairy tales, their mirages, all torn apart by the rising sun!   Storm is coming— the sky is black! From mud and blood rebellion blooms! No curtain-call! No silence now! We write the ending— with fire, with fists, with voices unchained! The final act is ours! The people’s thunder— revolt! revolt! revolt!

My provocation, my mercenary. It was I who placed the gun in his hand.   And when the bodies fell, my voice too rose in protest. Even morality, justice, and ethics marched in my parade— not family, not kin, only the lie that truth always wins.   I raised the banner of victory over a mountain of corpses, my words of peace etched into history, immovable, unchallenged.   I built the martyr’s altar— and there, I swore oaths for punishment of the killers. Yet the killers— were mine.   I drafted the war’s archive, through the eyes of a vulture. I caged betrayal and sold it as faith.   Before the camera, I stood in front of the grieving families. The world looked upon me— open-mouthed, terrified, awed by my triumph.   I am the artist I draw the beauty of death— eternal, inevitable. I carve it to be felt, to be sold, to be crowned with fame. I am the laureate. I know the truth of life: that even art must drink from veins. And still, I need human blood to ke...

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...

Soft leaves fall upon my chest— come, let us kiss, after so many lifetimes.   So many births have passed, so many days I have not entered your room.   Your breasts, filled with milk— let me drink, press my lips to your nipples, make the green greener.   From your red river flows desire, its current surging. Blue blood pulses through veins of thought. Let me enter— into the endless cavern.   In the folds of sweet sugar desire gathers, layer by layer. At the doorway of your womb joy’s nectar churns unceasing.   I drift— bodiless, borne upon the world’s illusion.   And then— looking into your eyes, leaving a kiss upon your lips— love, passion, the body’s own tenderness fills the earth’s perception.   This, the household, the infinite mercy of a woman’s body. Here, on this shore, life leaves its gift.   After so long, I have found joy. Do not send me back empty-handed.   My heart—saffron, my path—summoned by life.   One drop of seed I must l...

I thought to leave a stone behind, to mark the stream of joy I’ve known, the tears I saw, the wrong, the love— all etched upon its rugged bone.   Would such a gift be just, or vain? I wonder if a life’s divide can be accepted, closed with words, yet commas urge me on to write.   At midnight, by my mother’s feet, the hibiscus folds its scarlet wings; the water lifts, the air grows thin, and age takes breath from living things.   No one has kept their secret thoughts, and still I sketch tomorrow’s face— yet what is future? Will it come? Or yesterday’s a truer place?   A shadow calls me to the ghat, a beggar’s form, her hands extend; “ Leave me a grain, an endless gift, your burden carried to the end.”   But is it simple—leave a stone? Who bears its weight through all the years? What man would take another’s grief, and guard it close with silent tears?   At night, no sleep will visit me, my mind half-closed, my eyes still wide. Who scattered grain along the st...

Salvador Dalí’s clock, with its ticking like acid drops, announces: midnight.   This time is a snare, woven in strange meshes, a three-dimensional carnival where democracy pretends to dance. The minute hand swings like a pendulum, obedient to gravity, unchanging.   They dragged a young man from his home— into the still night. Everyone punished, each according to his labor.   Civilization changes, voices demand change: “ Let us walk, let us roam— now is the right time.” But time itself spins in half-circles, like a kite in crooked flight.   Let this time not change for politics alone. In the dark foundations of this land, a blood-red future blossoms, a double-layered snare of hours.   A girl raped. An old man starves on a roadside corner. A thief tied to a lamppost, beaten. Migrants torn from villages, scattered on city pavements. A girl dressed up, waiting on the street. A boy, educated, filling forms on the steps of the GPO. A farmer’s body hanging from the bra...