Dibyendu's WallScript

I lift the pen — angry, lazy, foolish friend, half-loved, half-hated, good for dreams, quick to break.   It whispers nonsense, spills fire and air, hides in its root, stops in rows, a release, a freedom unnamed.   The pen speaks for itself, no microphone, no patience, only drifting thoughts and a pride in hiding.   Some days generous, some days cruel, writing love in rose-water, forgetting the road, hearing the world’s lament.   Where is hope? Who will take me across? I lift the pen — but close the page, staring at the earth’s road, waiting for someone to know the honesty of the penman.  

The grey afternoon sank, exhausted, into the lap of dryness, and yet in the south — clouds gathered with the menace of a lover’s unspoken word. From the miles of road never walked came the beckoning — the dangerous promise of what the body had not yet tasted.   The sky blackened. Darkness pressed in on all sides. Droplets, lovers returning in layer after layer, slid down the skin of the earth, unbuttoning its blouse of dust. The clouds’ touch loosened the garment from her face — a secret pain escaped like the sigh from a long-clenched thigh.   They fled in torn directions, tears from the rim of heaven, rushing into the towns, the hollows, the open mouths of rivers. Where will they go? The lips of the loveless tremble in the wind. Channels, creeks, and waterways shuddered, the whole body of the world quickened under the whip of rain.   In the dark sari of the clouds — humanity, love, wordless power became messengers drawn by the deep plough of some mechanical passion. Lift...

From so far — a drowned world walks toward me, I lie upon it, feeling time leak through its veins. An unspeakable sea of monstrous intimacies laps at the mind, at the body, its current weightless, chill — for in memory, nothing is distinct from what we have seen or merely dreamed.   I dream of existing in untainted delight, without certainty, without the piety of science. I interrogate the blurred petals of this half-song, suspecting thirst itself is an axis around which lips, imagined, revolve.   The sky — oh, the sky will be a dark chamber, and in the pupil that stares at its own knowing-line of light the hand closes upon itself, cradling all that can be taken into the open chest’s lament.   And when they seal the coffin, or when a letter, like a sword of sunlight, rises to blind — then slowly the dark will unpeel, like the wounded blemish of a moon, like a veil that hides nothing and guards no door.   I wonder if the mournful song of this heavy earth touches him —...

The time to come has fallen asleep, caught in a deep net of dreams.   I hold the poem to my chest— that old promise from the past, those far-off days of love.   Have you forgotten? As if my thirsting heart were left in your courtyard.   The advancing days— they’ve arrived at my grave, breaking it open.   A song without language, left behind by someone— did they sing in joy? Did they dance to the rhythm of unpaid self-consolation?   If you remember, then keep it— One day I’ll bloom like a leaf on the branches of Chaitra.   When, where— the moment will slowly open, letting my existence float in the circle of life.   If you hold today’s rhythm in your chest, it will never fade, never die— that ancient season when love was all.

Far off, pulling away, fading slow, taking back and taking back again from the very start of life— like every day— the pain is already inside you.   It stays. The earth is endless. All the other lives? Don’t matter much.   I think of friends— they carry more pain than me. But that doesn’t help. Their pain isn’t mine, and mine isn’t theirs. So no matter how big the pain outside, it isn’t the weight that counts.   A tree has sprouted on my forehead. It grows inward— roots are veins, nerves are branches, thoughts are tangled leaves.   Today’s shade is from that tree. Its blood is orange, its pomegranate is fire. It speaks inside my body— “Come closer… you hear me?”   No one’s calling to take me away. Modern folk, like they can’t go forward at all. The moving sorrow stays hidden, the net still tightening around the heart.   Give the dream a little love for tomorrow— be it fame or justice— press your hand to your chest, you’ll feel the hurt.   A time will s...

All round thee spreads an unseen boundless sphere; Who dares o’ertake thee, who may draw thee near? To spurn thy name, to fill the page with rhyme, And, buying metre, boast of heights sublime— Such mortal bards, though proud in measured lore, Shall sink, o’ermatched, within thy boundless shore.   A drop of water, in thy tongue devised, Loses its cadence, lost, unrecognised; In thine own tide of thought and glad excess, All other voices fade to nothingness.   So great the blaze of thine unwearied light, That talent’s fire, and genius’ burdened might, Like billows on the shore, their clamour spend, And in thy form celestial image blend.   Thou art a traffic of immortal days, Wherein thy lasting fame each market sways; And lesser poets, wan with hopeless plight, Do find their orbits shattered in thy light.   For thou art space itself; with moral pride Thy giant shadow falls on every side; The small are smitten in their fragile way, Their constellations quenched in dark ...

The seed of a goal is planted in our hearts. Across leagues of a sea of sorrow, the sky arrives. Pilgrims return home and, with wonder, see that nothing in the world has changed.   The urge to seek and to embrace is so intense that if one has knowledge and desire, life feels complete. But the quests scatter— the road turns to stone, and the unlucky walk on hard ground.   Their muscles slowly grow stronger; their strength gives them the illusion of peace. No one will keep a place for normality in the innermost chambers of the mind, for they have seen each person is different, and must walk through a path filled with thorns.   They know life’s worth can be bought only with sweat and blood. On this fragile, perilous road, in the shade of trees, time moves forward unnoticed. In an unknown land, their home lies behind them.   Mountains rise sideways, astonishing all; in the rainbow sky, vultures tumble, searching for prey between afternoon and evening. Water rushes over s...

Scene 1 – Country Home, Dawn   The first light spills across a courtyard of soft grass, damp with night’s breath. Bare feet press into it, wiping away the dust before stooping under a low doorway. The hut is small, its clay walls warm from yesterday’s sun, its air steeped in the smell of soil and river wind.   From beyond, the Padma calls—its broad waters a silver ribbon in the pale dawn. Steamers wait at the bank, their iron chains sunk deep into the muddy char. Fishermen’s hands knot and pull, voices mingling with the low hum of water against wood.   A sudden rush—people clambering aboard, their movements urgent but familiar. And there, among them—Ratu Didi. Her red-and-white sari, frayed at the hem, swings with each step. She turns briefly, a flash of dark eyes and the curve of a smile. Beside her—Raju, Dulal, Khant, Mukunda, Bonhari, Ershad, Broj, Murari, Chapa, Jasmin— a litany of names that even time cannot erase.   Scene 2 – The Green Horizon   Ou...

From here the moon climbs, over the orange-smeared clouds. Tonight, Venus burns— like a Lakshmi owl’s eyes.   Evening and darkness have crossed the far hills, and over the calm sea, stars scatter like broken porcelain. The sky turns violet. Night settles in the garden. Love for the sea wakes in the chest.   Only the jasmine’s scent, only the heat-sweat of the night. Ocean to ocean— how silent war can be. Where the lotus blooms, there is life-giving.   Thin Tagar flowers wake in yellow dreams. The last moon of the night—strange, soft. I will be there with you, where no one sees, eyes closed in trust.   Where on the sandbank addition and subtraction are done, the violet waves retreat. The waterline beckons, kingfisher whales call.   You sit waiting— no place left to float. Far away stands Death, leaning on an ostrich wing.   Thirst has lodged in the chest today. The horizon line holds its breath, grief in the thirst. On a shepherd boy’s lap I will take this ...

The silent servant stands motionless, This delayed land of Bharat Gazes on with a faded smile. The air has frozen still, From behind the clouds Thunder murmurs. I press my ear to hear— The herald of the coming storm.   The wind smells of gunpowder, Life’s breast is pitted with craters, Humanity locked in battle with man. The boatman waves from afar, The vessel rises in the heaving waters.   In the certain darkness, The royal decree barred our way, Yet in our silence A sudden gust rises— The conch shell sounds in protest.   This stillness is only a pause; No journey will halt forever. On the dry porch, In a storm of dust, I sit with bowed head and listen To the death-cry of the bamboo grove, The drumbeat of the storm approaching.   Still, there is more to say— The servant holds A secret pact with an unseen band. The people roar, The day of shame arrives; Yet the rulers sit, Watching and listening in silence, Their gaze stretching to the horizon— An endless lament, The...

You wanted joy, loved the sun— that first time we met, winter fog lay heavy over a brittle day.   Rootless hours, solitary and starved, fell hard in love. A timid heart, wobbling at the edge of newness, listening to fairy tales of pleasure and pain, carrying the weight of experience not yet lived.   Winter slipped away. If love were spring, I wore it like powdered color— we walked close, down distant roads in imagined cities, through conversations made only of silence.   Far out, by the beach, slums clung to the shore— fishermen waiting in stillness, nets bent like restless fish in the pull of the tide.   There was too much— too many wounds, too much hunger. We skipped the barriers, trusting God like a dare.   I thought love meant laughter in the fields, barefoot farmers tracing narrow borders toward the harvest. But it wasn’t true.   That path— just a crowd, driven by rivalry and self-importance, faith drained to zero. In spring I learned I was a beggar, a...