Dibyendu's WallScript

The beloved voice of poetry, its rhythm, was slain by the surrealist prose, the way love was murdered by domestic life. Flame trees and deserts, like sorrow-drenched narratives— dream-waves come to brush against the truth, winds play in bamboo groves, fathers of children and houses, ancestral non-residences. This place once teemed with people, this land unfit for dwelling.   Love had died one day in the tug-of-war of economy; many feelings had turned irrelevant. To understand this world through money— love without value, the burden of the worthless.   Like life itself, poetry has no inherent meaning. A singular, complete meaning is almost impossible to create. It must find a mind where meaningless futility still nests, even now— astonished, amazed— rhythm, meaning, measure, verse, full moons were lost long ago, like sorrow-drenched narratives in surreal worlds.   Is there a land of the mind? Just enough— where poems dwell in their own glory, in regal arrangements, and eve...

One day, on the pale canvas of my body, I painted day on one side, night on the other— stood before it and called out: Dibyendu, are you home?   Yesterday, I thought long and hard— I’ll outrun my shadow. But today, I sit still, exhausted, my face drowned in sadness.   He came. Called my name. I rose, a bit proud, and said— Dibyendu, you? Now, at this hour? What’s so urgent, so necessary?   In this house of life, the same dream circles back, word by word, threaded into new sentences, becomes a kind of context: the struggle to stay alive in a civilized shell, driven by desire— to live for every self within us.   But inside, there’s just ash and silence. And on this lonely road, I keep dodging potholes by myself.   Dibyendu, do you remember what you said last week? Everything I’ve done, all these years— you said it had no worth.   And yet, you kept breathing the air of this Earth, carrying your tiny ego so far, alone.   Where are your companions now? Your...

Books try— to make whole a fragment, a story condensed into one drop of life.   Ink stains on dead paper— how long before they fade?   The writer dies. But not the spark. Not the illusion of knowing.   Certification—required. As if truth needs approval. All life’s philosophies locked away in dusty shelves. Dark corners of libraries exhale the smell of forgotten ink.   Pages—yellowed like brittle bones, turn classical with a sigh.   When the ink blurs, do ideals breathe again? Are stories—of things, of people— released into the void?   And if the writer is left behind, does civilization suffer at all?   Is there anything left to truly learn? Humans today barely face themselves.   What you buried— you never asked to know. What lay beneath your damp heart?   What urge took you to the ocean floor?   Can a writer survive here, in this machine-fed archive?   Unlikely. In the scrapyard of human minds— resentment curdles, ego preens, envy f...

It hurts— deep, raw, like a forgotten song that once meant everything.   Your touch—gone. Your eyes— no longer carrying the color of safety.   There was never any exhaustion in you, only quiet strength. But now— even that is memory.   I still believe beauty is greater than rage. But your scent— the warmth of your hair— is no longer in the air.   This life pulses with pain. Peace? That, too, left with you.   All signs of you washed out, like chalk on a slate someone was desperate to clean.   Your absence is loud. Your tenderness— replaced by something brittle, unforgiving.   How did you manage to take all the joy with you— not just now, but for all the time ahead?   I sit in this chaos, not searching for belief, but for need— my own need, my own broken sense of what it means to be well.   Yes, I wanted this too. Yes, I made the choice. But what’s gone, is gone.   I went against myself just to tell you the truth: I loved you. Honestly. Unr...

I hold it fast within my heart— The pressure of my living blood; From Nature came a gentle whisper, And I drank it deep, Down to the farthest chambers of my breath, Through all the silent organs of my frame.   A music dwelt within that love, And bound me with a steadfast clasp; Loosen it but for a moment, And slowly I should waste away.   It is the way to a most loving heaven, Where peace and concord rest unmoved; It wakes the sense of beauty in the form, And gives no leave to Sun or Star To take their holiday.   In the shadow of my own desire I dwell, my mind enclosed; Yet sky of blue forgets no hour, Nor does the green of leaf and light, That ancient alchemy of growth.   I call to mind the need for pity, And for love—the body’s dearest want. Thou little whisper from the fields, Thou too hast kept thy post today;   And I, in my unbroken leisure, Cherish thee, Welcome thee to live forever here.   Now on the hospital bed I lie, Night’s balm and gentle draugh...

When night is done I will search the alleys in fear, for light has wounded more of this body than I can count.   A sharp line of it falls on my shoulder at the turning of the crossroad— a flash of unease, comfort, and suspicion. Then comes the hunt for a safe wall, and the hiss of bullets.   In the heart without light, light means the scar of blood, the pulse of insecurity. Light means the anger of native police, light means administration, reservation, caste, industry, capital; light means democracy, protest, the seizure of government.   I search only for the dark, muttering mad phrases in Amlashol, Belpahari, and every other corner where the light does not go, where lives waste away in silence, where dreams fall from their stems and the dry red soil bristles with quiet threat.   There I remain in deepest secrecy. I love the dark, I live in the dark— and all the friends of light are my enemies. ...

Where the pores of the skin tremble in a sudden shiver, I gaze without reason at strange devotions. On those harsh, unyielding days feelings drift in and out of dreams. If lustful imaginings are to become truth, someone insolent to the body will speak of love— the fevered moment when passion falls— will it not expose the fraud? Let that day come when, in self-pleasure, one clings to the urgency of a solitary life.   In our darkness, our servitude, a lone figure rises from the shadows— at the crossroads of Freudian awareness— forgetting the fears of kin, walking beast-like and alone, seeking an undefined fate. In this mind, strange dreams come and go; a voiceless decay, dreams like the wind of a wing tending to the skin, filling the pores with an astonishing thrill. In air where feeling does not exist, the stunned intoxication of machinery— our destiny is the mechanism we carry along, in the relentless urge of a solitary life. ...

What lay in the minds of ghosts is there still, and will remain— the restless sea’s identity, or the world in grey, while dogs keep talking.   On earth there is no true self; in the darkness of personality there is sin, and stain in the name of justice. From morning, everything sits powdered and posed.   Wisdom’s disgust has no cremation, as if this were not a stage at all, but only leadership— and like the climber’s upward reach, it frees the imagination while I remain formless, forever.   I weave dreams in the uncertain clamour— a linguist, hearing voices drift from behind the stage: I was here, seeking the dissected life. False speech brought many promises, yet today, truth is such that not one line made it to the manuscript’s page in the end.   The mask will stay on the face— that is certain; from the shadows words turn bestial. Identity hides flawless, while sins and deeds spread their wings into the mind’s strange realm.   In darkness, ghosts are unseen, j...

The Color of Life   What is the color of life? In the sincerity of the world, all colors are bound in seven loops.   In quiet, faded light, moment by moment, we hurry back again— but toward what light?   A morning full of color— one colored light. In the monastery’s field of kash flowers, a solitary nun; a thicket of white in the sky; the color of calm, of still and quiet time?   Or the proud, upraised, majestic hue of the endless horizon, where clouds, in perfect arrangement, paint the sky; the black of forests, obscene and terrifying— is that its color?   Or perhaps in color there is so much blood, so much crimson, youth and age together— and at this edge of life, it frightens me.   Then it all lies scattered in the rush of a thousand people; in getting lost, I feel it must be there, mixed into the polish of skin— some color, surely.   I have not seen it. Seeking to see the world, I have learned myself. ...