Dibyendu's WallScript

From village unto city, along the wide road’s edge, treading the clay-worn pavement for hours in a single breath, he at last arrived by the shadow of the railway station. By the tall electric wires that mark the path one may travel, he followed the unseen road toward nowhere, for the heart was neither in city nor in village. The metallic roar came rushing, like a living giant of iron and smoke, to carry away a mind already severed from its ties, to leave it at some unfamiliar doorway in the suburbs. With trembling hands he stirred the papers of poems once written, their life-force stolen, their bodies destroyed by death, so many tears had drained his strength, yet the pages had never been gathered whole. And for those unfinished leaves, he peered through strange shutters, asking—who abides in this house? With the burden of weariness upon his head, with sweat and blood wasted along the road of life, he searched and searched for the familiar dwelling— was it here, upon...

  One misted dawn there came upon me a strange and ghostly dream, and with it marched the worries that delight in breaking houses and scattering hearths, they love to fold their wings like kites that swoop from the sky and, in a single stroke, carry away both peace and faith.   I had told Santoshi long ago—within the hidden corner of the drawer rests the bank’s passbook, the coins clattering like lost time, the bonds of Kishan Vikas, the yellowed certificates, the little fragments of our earning years. The certificate of life insurance, I said, shall one day be of use, when the earth itself is washed like sand by the tide, and the imprisoned soul seeks its release like a shore swallowed by sea.   Dreams of terror disquiet man, for to move from one vessel unto another— whether by crooked means or by honest path— is alike a peril, for abysses gape on either side, and before us rise those sharpened peaks, as vultures spread their wings and descend without sound upon the fog....

Lo, darkness was, is, and ever shall abide.   When Tamerlane and his hosts did raid this land, the maidens were borne away like spoils of war. Yet still mine own dreams climb the stair unseen, buying fair morns with the coin of a pawned past. Battles we bury, safely forgot; for B ā bar ’ s swords did towns efface entire, and Darius, crimson upon his path, strode unto Greece with bloodied hand and brow. Yet were these ways not noble, though the chronicler—one-eyed and crooked— did name them hero’s tale. Darkness was, is, and shall remain.   In solitude seek I a dawn anew, gazing upon wounds that glisten as bright coins. In Avanti’s dust-bound halls where love lay slain, there lingereth Ajivika Makkhali’s corpse. In brazen age, upon the beaten road, the Brahmins walk, their path cleansed by pitcher’s pour, whilst shudras, nameless, scourged on buffalo’s back, bear welts of lash, chained in kshatriya law. Yet Ajivika Makkhali rose in defiance, rebellion carved upon his dust-worn ...

Time has passed— let it go. Life was lived, for a while the feet can hurry through this muddy path.   Then it turns— red earth gone, black tar stretches ahead.   Let darkness fall upon the road, the wanderer of horizons with iron steps.   The sun in his hands— with warmth let it brand the pain, erode the stone.   The trees move away, the green canopy slips and vanishes.   At the yellow horizon’s end of day, in the guise of the outcast, one stands waiting— asking only for the last release, the Ticket.

The morning arrives in a soft light, sketching the day with care, and within it rests a quiet, lonely dream proposal of youth. Then comes the reckless joy of summer, fierce and wild, entering every child’s heart with the promise that one day in dreams, the rhythm of worldly valleys will be filled.   A free soul rises, seeking a height above the trees, while the books once cast down upon the earth burn their pages in the warmth of a hearth. Rivers dry from winter’s breath, emotions freed from silt— and tell me, was there a better way to become human?   Here is where decay will settle, here the conviction of the heart, here forever the flame of a clear day glows. There is a joy in knowing, and so I rise on wings toward the sky. But who gave you the right to measure my time? The sun at noon now washes every ache away, and without a sound begins its slow descent— light fading until life’s next chapter calls.   What the world has lost, where shall I seek it today? Summer speak...

  I have kept asking, endlessly, Can one truly be a friend? Subinoy said.   I turned aside, my gaze resting on grey fields— Will it rain today?   Beneath the tree’s root, shadows weave the play of clouds, a strange disorder, a pain.   The doors of suffering— they open by themselves. All my hidden fears, I kept them close. Living became harder that way.   In the western sky, tonight— hope drifts, with pride, without light, swaying on the cradle of dreams.   I remain with an unbroken body, surrounded by strange, terrible friends who only speak of pain.   Dreams burned in the fire of despair, and as they left, I wondered— can they ever return?   Subinoy said. With a clay cup of tea at his lips, his head leaned eastward.   At the end of endless roads, lonely hands hold lonely hands— two-faced beggars, wandering.   Sorrows open the window, leading the heart away, as if it were their vow.   I speak with trees, constantly, tirelessly, when...

Mid-monsoon fields of ripening green, beside them a dirty canal flows, unseen, black water tangled in weeds that gleam, bamboo scaffolds rise from the stream.   At dawn, in the hush of waking air, farmers lift bundles of golden grain fair, last year’s harvest piled high in decay, still holding what time could not sweep away.   By noon, with weary bodies sore, they return and lean on the courtyard floor. Muscles loosen, breathing slow, watching the sky where memories go.   Whispers of yesterday fill their eyes, children and elders gaze at the skies. Snakes without venom play in the weeds, life repeats in its simplest needs.   And there—on bamboo frame she bathes, her wet cloth clings, her body sways. Droplets fall, curve down her breast, muscles stir in secret unrest.   A patch of earth, still dry, grows wet, a mirror of sky in the water is set. Clouds of autumn, pale and kind, others dark, with fatigue entwined.   Stone by stone the edges rest, fields hold ...

After years, I drag the yellowed books off the shelf— they sit across from me, like an old rival, like a mirror.   I tell myself: let’s begin again, throw away the wisdoms gathered, they were only dust. Begin where error breathes.   I write: How are your ideals these days? Have they aged well, or do they sell themselves to the brokers of stability? You made a home with me, though the rumors say otherwise— your name drifts like gossip in the marketplace of half-truths.   The world spins, everyone invents their own version. Me too— sinking sky to underworld, piled with chores, head stuffed with mistakes like rotten fruit.   Still, I hunger only for two moments of intimacy, the primitive love of a clean heart. Most of life is coal— hard, black, burning. My meaning? I make sense of you by unmaking myself, finding your greatness in the fractures.   This solitary road— its stones endless, its griefs fossil-heavy— yet I trust you’ve never turned cruel.   Your word...

My tongue is exiled, far away from the tongue of your heart— banished to lonely islands, to silence.   At the dawn of my broken dreams weighed down with a day’s tired soul— no power left, no courage left, to stand strong by my own strength.   My heart is a scripture of darkness, a holy chariot with no hope, dragged through empty medieval streets, where children walk only on the road of death, bearing forever the burden of chains, dying with weak, wasted thoughts.   And you— your mountain civilization, your hardened body, your worker’s mind, your warrior’s victories from countless battles— they trample my tender dreams.   My heart turns to stone, watching your mastery of words.   My thoughts burn, melted into ash, scattered among the many. Drums of ancestors roll, bows sing sharp in the air.   We were meant to face again— my morning dreams against your mountain pride. ...

You are awake, O light in this thick midnight over endless field, over dunes of sand where the shine of gold still flickers faint. People sleep, bone-tired.   Then the sea roars cold, silver torch on its head. Sky beyond holds breath of age— yet you stay awake, O light, in this darkness!   Still you keep awake, yes, hope still stays. The line of horizon ahead, waves return, break again, changing the shore with every strike.   Half-light, firefly-dark, jackals’ burning eyes, fear of all this broken world. Yet with sea and sand love still plays, foolish joy still hums.   You remain awake, O light. So the heart remembers joy, so people may sleep in peace inside this night’s house.   Stay awake, O light, keep watch, untiring guard. I too wish to wake with you, holding love tight, searching only for what is just— on this earth.