Dibyendu's WallScript

Pain at times in pleasure’s stream, Seeks itself in another’s dream. Through nights of grief and days of woe, The trembling heart still longs to know.   At life’s dark end, temptations call, They weave their shadows over all. Yet in the weak, the tyrant reigns, While burning minds bear brighter flames.   Though hearts are scorched and turned to dust, They glow with light, because they must. Like moths that circle fire’s embrace, They find in death a fleeting grace.   In moments brief, despair may rise, The homeless soul with aimless eyes. Yet eastward sings a purer song, That lifts the spirit, leads it on.   I break the fragile halls of dream, To chase the sea’s unending gleam. The jar of sorrow brims with pain, But surely life shall bloom again.   One day a hand shall beckon near, A voice of love the heart shall hear. And time will pass, yet hearts shall start, To fall once more, in love’s new art.

Through sleepless nights my dreams take flight, With you, their flame still burns so bright. All gold I pledged to your closed chest, Where longing hides and finds no rest.   The body craves, the spirit yearns, Yet distance guards what closeness burns. For if you near, the dream would fall, The memory fade, the bond enthrall.   Better to lose than close at hand, To keep the past, a shining land. To drift in future’s woven snare, Than break the spell we cannot bear.   Yet losing you, my heart’s not free, Its captive chains still dwell with thee. Forever bound, though far apart, My sorrowed soul, my conquered heart.

Seeking the meaning of life’s fearless complexities, if blood should rise in a throat of blue, if a hesitant mind, bound by the limits of experience, surrenders in battle— then yield the world’s essence at the highest rate of interest, pay dearly into the treasury of life.   See how the splendid hour wastes away, fades into dishonor, dissolves into nothingness— and from each one, take it far away, make of it the offering of solitude, numbered among the neglected, the impoverished of heart.   If life be accepted as a war, then in every defeat, in every futility, when dazzlement of modern society turns away, the vanquished in silence shall stand victorious.   Would it not be better, instead of drowning some innocent soul in the isolation of thought, to let oneself be drowned in the party of the defeated, or in the revolutionless, self-absorbed void?   All falsehood, all arrogance shall be stripped, and solitude shall render you selfless; yet in drinking the poison of h...

Doubt seized me suddenly, seeing you. I had not thought— on such a monsoon day, in such a solitude, you would come so far ahead, only to return again along the old road, Sunanda—was it you?   Since you have come, listen then to my new thoughts: I love knowledge, you know that. And in my bed there are many, each day Madhuri, and my deception hides nothing at all.   I too love solitude, to live alone, to celebrate the inner festival of life. Meeting you again like this, so suddenly, broke every promise I had made.   The crowd where my mind is lost— alone, it never lingers long. It clings like a bolster, the love that clasps me, through the silent exile of forests. For a thousand years women have come to me.   And Sunanda, so you have too. You have dreamed again, yet you have not learned— as I have learned— to live upon the path of self-surrender, to ride upon the chariot of self-love. ...

At first glance it looks green. Green in endless variations—deep green, ashen green, radiant green, barren green, faded green. How many shades? Is there ever an end to green? Yet when one opens both eyes wide and peers with intent, there is no green at all—only a parched desert. Infinite stillness reigns there. Stains of dried blood mark the ground, ancient wounds long unhealed. Each night, someone comes and commits another murder.   The blows have continued for long. “Will you step aside a little now?” comes a voice of protest. A sound of refusal, a note of rebellion. Though dead, it is lured still by worldly consciousness. Who knows, by this evening, in storm and rain, how many will die struck by lightning? Those standing in pain, clinging to life, one of them mutters: “Step aside, or my waist will break. I am at the edge of death.” “Bear it. We are almost there.” “If it goes on like this, I may never arrive.”   There is no space left to stand. A headache gnaws at Anutosh....

On the day when the blood in his chest dried into clotted stone, Nityananda made a vow: never again would he set foot into the quicksand of relationships. Better to bang his head against the stony walls of solitude, better to let life pass inside that cave of aloneness. Not only in the empire of the brain but also in the palace of the heart—self-interest reigns supreme. Without self-interest, neither wealth lasts, nor do relationships. And so, Nityananda turned inward, self-absorbed.   One day he showed his palm to an astrologer seated on the steps of a museum. The astrologer, peering at his hand, declared: “Your Sun-line rises high—you shall have fame, wealth, glory. This is the hand of a king.” A parrot nearby screeched in harsh rhythm, agreeing with the prophecy. Nityananda asked, “And love?” The astrologer bent low with a magnifying glass, tracing the lines of his palm for some time. Finally he said: “There—there lies Rahu. It devours the Sun, makes him unconscious, ruins men. ...

Even amidst the encroaching mists of materialism, in this mechanical tyranny of devices and artifices, there are moments—rare as a sudden breeze through suffocating air—when existence pauses, and silence sets the stage for a secret drama of consciousness. It is on such a backdrop, made of solitude and clarity, that the incantations of verse without rhythm, the footfalls of inexorable cadence, make their appearance.   Sisyphus, all thy courage falters Before this colossal burden! However fervently I surrender myself to the task, Art is immense, yet life unbearably brief.   From remote epitaphs, from forgotten graves, a summons resounds—funereal, muffled, like the drumbeat of a heart in anguish. Yet even so, within the half-slumbering mine of my soul, jewels lie buried, unexhumed by pick or spade. Blossoms, too, surrender their secret perfumes into the emptiness, scattering mournful fragrance at the margins of desolate silence.   Thus despair itself, in the poet’s interi...