Dibyendu's WallScript

Milk arrives at dawn, swelling breasts that cradle a newborn life— the world is founded again.   Yet circling vultures of noon, hawk-eyed and hungry, gaze at innocence unguarded, their famine mirrored in lust.   In the soil of our thoughts milk flows only after the fiercest consummation, the summit of union.   Falcons vanish in flight, owls cry in midnight silence, and Lucifer himself bends low to witness— is this child encircled by God’s soft hand, or abandoned to the ash-pit of a ruthless society?   Tenderly, in false caress, a hand weighs the breast, so much milk—white wings! Yet children born of this pain inherit both sweetness and torment, each sip a chalice of truth spilled against lies.   Lucifer hunts such squandered innocence, fears rise: can the infant’s mouth upon the breast redeem justice, outwit the cunning of corruption?   Where innocence fails, civilization sickens— a hidden Vibhishan waits, treachery crouched in shadow. And yet, like a bud b...

By chance, mistaken, wandering wrong, I stumbled again upon that road of childhood— the crooked lane, long forgotten, suddenly returned like a spark to a weary mind.   Yet now it is changed. At the end once stood my beloved, her quiet figure pacing the rooftop in silence— that house still stands, but the tender terrace, the spell of love, is gone.   On this side I remain, a pauper of memory, wandering in search of what can never return.   Each face I meet is new, each manner unfamiliar. Perhaps they think of me as I think of myself— a needless presence, a relic of the past, an ancient stranger out of place.

The marvelous days of human life all begin on Monday. Leaving their homes, they move onto the streets of the city. Into the bustle of everyday life.   Sanjoy has no bustle at all. He has gone and stood beneath his beloved tree. With his satellite camera. It is not a banyan tree from whose body baskets of roots descend on all sides. Just an ordinary coconut tree. It does not provide a very good roof above his head. Yet, compared to other coconut trees, this tree is short in height. How that came to be—after much thinking—no clue could be found. A fault in the genes of its predecessors may be one of the chief causes.   But the roots of this tree are quite strong. They keep pressing ever deeper into the earth. A little widespread. Clinging to the ancestral homestead of forefathers. It is an invisible duel of life with death.   Here, every day at ten in the morning, Sanjoy stops with his camera. Whoever it may be, if one comes here, one’s thoughts, one’s movements, one’s man...

A rounded nose, an oval head, a naked body with a humble spread, a ragged cloth across his chest, a darkened face where sternness rests, a jaw severe with power untold, a voice that rings with manhood bold.   In the land of wisdom’s flame, after peace had made its claim, youths approached with reverent eyes, pressing against the temple’s side. They bowed, they touched his feet with dust, their garments smeared in humble trust. “ O Master, teacher, guide divine,” they whispered low with voice of wine.   He smiled a little, spoke with ease: “ I am but a wanderer of worldly seas. I came to this land and saw a beast, a serpent of time that never ceased— sleeping, coiled, with endless pride, guarding your culture, fangs spread wide.   Your laws, your morals, vainly pressed, as if from thought mere waters leapt. The serpent slips into its hole, lamenting truth it cannot hold.”   The youths replied: “O sage, O guide, the pain of justice is strong, not lied. We look upon you...

We met again, after so many years, through the train’s window I see— vast meadows, the fields of ripening green, water-bodies glimmering with quiet breath, all rushing backwards while we keep moving towards the future!   How strange—how are you now? A sudden winter has fallen on the plains, my age has grown heavy, creepers and leaves too thick with weight. And you—how do you fare? The sky seems kind, at least.   Do you remember the winter lake, the birds that used to come? Benches littered with fallen leaves, and our vow—to dream aloud of days not yet born, to listen to promises of the new.   But civilization has shifted, my head aches with time’s burden. Where have those hours gone? Through the train window the earth itself runs neatly backwards, while I, finding a sky of my own, search still for that old station after so many roads of life, an aged body carrying new words, eyes fixed forward.   Ah, our days of youth— our stories of desire and promise, where we said...

There was no reason for loss, so many years had gone across— yet loss arrived, it had to be, in certain things, defeat holds majesty. Do you see, Madhavi?   The sunflower never bears a grudge against the sun’s unyielding touch. Between you and me, no wound was made, perhaps in youth some scars still stayed.   But now, so many days have flown, and suddenly one night is known— it waits inside my quiet room, a sudden bloom after years of stone.   Your household breathes—its pulse is clear, it is good, yet jealous near. It loves you, true, yet deep within your heart still hides that secret kin.   You said tonight, Madhavi, sure— you know the reason, nothing more: for happiness alone you came, to the mess-room near Shyambazar’s flame. Had you once thought it so before?   And now the winter chamber lies, a bed where both our bodies rise— will he arrive, after so long? Leaving behind your safety’s song, your world of order, home and pride, to let a little love reside. ...

One world— woven in dream’s own pattern, where I search for myself, where all connection is severed, where the mind may plough fields beneath the unstoppable speed of light, and joy may rest, content to spend its hours in love, where none demand, where idleness itself becomes a festival, and the heart goes wandering— astonished, carried by waves through paths Platonic, with an imagined, furious haste.   And yet— a merciless morning returns the body, back to society’s narrow banks, to the world where ties are cut, where the crossing from here to there remains forever unwalked, and my unhappy heart longs for the passage that cannot be crossed.   Here there is no peace, no certainty of desire fulfilled; yet sorrow abides, yet fever and wounds remain, while forgetful mind is slain. Again and again it seeks escape, leaving the body behind, yearning to travel elsewhere, bearing only the free unconscious mind, where eternal spring resides, where joy of life might be as I have dreamed...