Dibyendu's WallScript

Between physics and God lie seven twists— and I have never stopped to think about choosing for the sake of goodness. Conflict and charity rule side by side, while I lived in careless ease, a slave to my own nerves, my spine still upright.   In the worst of times, there is always a cage to be found for the lonely traveller. Science was the wrong road for me; better to borrow justice from a benevolent God— and move with ease from love to renunciation.   For at the very beginning, there is no one, save the living body of adaptation. Nature does not dwell in the depths of anyone’s eyes. A woman—painted on a beachside canvas— forgets the grief of emptiness in her graceful unfolding.   Since the dawn of time, minds have been spread like nets of hatred across stagnant ponds. Sunlight devoured, the horizon etched on open plains— some die, some stay in the household.   As Kalidasa once hung from a branch, I too hang in the web of dreams. This stran...

Go— (if you must) to that far corner of the wind. Going—coming— paper coins in a marketplace that never opens.   Return— is not a door you simply walk through. No— it is Aruni, spine arched, holding the flood like a heartbeat; it is Uddālaka’s gaze— water brimming in the cup of his hands, trembling for ages.   The price? It lives at the far end of the road, where dust is older than our names. Yes— the road stops there. No— you cannot come back clean.   Once— God leaned into the human soul, asked for the way home. He carried rules like roses, ledgers like love letters.   We closed the gate— politely, firmly— and left Him standing in the dusk, with all the returning undone.

Last day of April— a bunch of unlucky guys hanging out under the shade of a devilishly lazy satinwood tree, stuck in that miserable human queue.   Over there, the Home Guard’s doing his sweaty push-ups for some “physical test.” The boys light up cheap smokes, spit out curses for the system— nothing poetic about it.   Down the road, here comes the snake charmer, hauling out his pitiful animals like a freak parade— half-naked kid, maid in a faded frock, tagging along.   The drum goes dug-dugi-dug and the monkey show hits the block. Jump, jump, jump— right on top of each other, ’ cause the boss says so. The crowd? They eat it up.   Meanwhile, the hopeless boys hang off the bus step, one foot dangling. Snake and mongoose go at it, while the charmer’s flute spins some sad, magic tune.   Some girls—wandering nowhere in particular— keep their old dreams tucked inside their chests. We roll over on our pillows, pretending not to see.   So much howling in this world,...

The static frame erases itself— and the moment begins to move. I go nomad with brush and ink, forget every fixed thing. I am the killer— of thought, of reason— ringing the death-drum, drunk on neural ecstasy, both hands raised in a funeral march. Which instincts walked past me? Who said I must be a wanderer? This art will not stay. In film—when, where— I was their charioteer. One pot for birth, death on the riverbank. On the canvas— a dangerous velocity, brush pushed by a drunken lover. Where is the cool water? Where they once spat, once hurled stones, now the river flows on both sides. From this bank to the other— a seagull arcs in flight. Like the sun, I grow thirsty for something unnamed. This— the reins on my eyes, life slipping here, a sailboat summoned on the chest of a tide. Here— pinned in the frame, the flag of still-unstill time. Through the speed of sight I call for revolution— or maybe for a mind that will not ache, a flute of thought that ...

Solitude is my only love— it writes itself without commas or semicolons. I turn leaf-green in the morning wind, lay my head in its quiet lap. Light and pain walk through my mind, yet I have set them aside— steadfast till the end. Death, in its final arithmetic, has brought a dream to my door— a holy love, gentle enough to sit beside my silence. The sky leans down, offering its hand in tenderness. I have wandered along the pavements of hell, where a lonely child wept. I placed my palm on the cool brow of conscience. In the vow of pure truth I have asked, quietly— how far can a burden carry a soul? Beyond the reach of villages, the foxes will call again and again. Crickets will thread their songs through the night. In my courtyard, new blossoms open, and I rise awake in the absorbed darkness, as the world quivers with sudden joy. In the staged rooms of high apartments an old man sits— half-lit, half-shadow, a prisoner without chains, the cold nearness of steel a...

Upon the earthen floor, in the north-east’s sombre keep, Weeps a shadow-dark enchantress; the day lies lightless, deep; A mountain vast of knowledge looms, yet clad in shadow’s veil, Her form—a sodden, formless thing, as chasms grim and pale. She wore a garland wrought of palash bloom, where many a tale did twine; A plateau of silken cocoons beneath her heavy feet did shine; The naked shape of womanhood was painted in man’s hue— Yet simple was her spirit’s stream, from some strange, unknown crew. The ample-bosomed Night of dark did dance upon her skin; Her years lay far, like leagues away; the noontide waned within; And some bold soul, untimely stirred, might dare to gaze again— At such a form, in such an hour, so full of secret pain. By the roadside, in the stone-bound earth, gold blossoms upward press; Her eyes seemed not a maiden’s eyes; her lips in guardedness; The meadows stood with ripened grain; the farmers sang their lay; But locust swarms, at midnight’s hush, fell ...