Dibyendu's WallScript

I have always known how to suffer in silence. I can hide my pain. Even when the heart splits into two jagged halves, my lips still keep the smile stitched tight. No one ever notices. A small, unnecessary sorrow—yet perhaps never before had it come so piercing, so absolute.   When I first saw you, your cheeks were swollen with pimples. You were not beautiful—not in the way the world calls beauty. Yet the innocence etched across your face enthralled me. All my life I had searched and wearied myself for something nameless; suddenly I felt as if I had found it—within you.   Perhaps I would never have carried any expectation to your door, if not for the stubborn endurance I have always borne toward life. And then, in that deep forest—mist-choked daylight, where no sunbeam could pierce, where silence itself grew like moss on stone—I discovered you. Shilbhadra had warned me: that jungle is a labyrinth, a chakravyuha. There is an entrance, yes—but once you walk inside, there is no ret...

He sits alone, in quiet solitude, on the balcony. Around him, the world moves on— days unroll as they always do, mornings spilling into weary afternoons, time dragging its wounded limbs. He never imagined life would pass in such despair, each day dissolving into the sameness of the last.   The rush of time, the weight of progress, is like a river striking against a frail earthen dyke— the banks collapse, homes are torn apart, and life is scattered into exile. Days come, days go, the body weakens, even as the world pretends to flow forward. Is it motion, or only a metaphor that deceives the senses?   Once there was a heart that lingered on the banks of the Padma, restless, grieving, searching for permanence. Now the shores have drifted away— or perhaps it is only he who has grown old. Locusts swarm upon the modern mind, gnawing at its spirit, while nostalgia clings like a fever.   He remembers being a migrant soul, an exile returning from the other Bengal, bringing family ...

Indifferent, I drift through life, sliding along its edge, secretly hidden within the womb of darkness.   Here, the famished beasts tear and claw apart, as swarms of fleeting insects ignite a blood-red fire.   This pain— one day I will repay it. I will hurl my cold, blue blood upon the earth, a curse of flames.   One day I shall shatter your detached pride, your arrogant departure, your illicit, whorish gaze— I will smother it in the darkness of destruction.   Where no tenderness dwelt, where you erased all ancient divisions, when this fugitive life expires I will wash away every stain of sin, blood, and fat.   Detached, primal, I remain alive, friendless, abandoned of love. My hands, my heart— burned by fire, tormented in silence, anguish unspoken.   For long, for ages, harder than the hardest stone, my fists have clenched. You too, be prepared— for a new day, for the inevitable jihad. ...

Krishna Angelina, I will leave— wherever my eyes decide to wander. The same eyes that found you once beneath the martyrs’ monument, where a single word could cost a life, where desire bled into dream, and pain returned like an old lover.   No! I come back, pressing my eyes against yours, sharpening memory like an unused, rusted sword. I will strike— somewhere, in rage. Or perhaps, briefly, I will only lose myself.   Krishna Angelina, I will leave— wherever my eyes decide to wander. Because here, in this country of place and time and choice, I have already lost too much.   Your eyes— their call was a theft. Jealousy carried off my heart. And you— you spoke with an unfamiliar boy, closer than a whisper, while the astonished earth pretended not to watch.   Krishna Angelina, I will leave— wherever my eyes decide to wander. A sharp blade hidden, in Othello’s fury, I may lay it down somewhere, or keep it swinging from my side— my ancient Kurukshetra.   Or in some othe...

You did not choose me. On the riverbank, the young ascetic gathered, and you walked away with him. I remain— alone, inside this vast solitude of city and survival, bread and cloth and burden. At times, I wish— perhaps we might meet again, perhaps your shameless eyes will signal love once more. Behind your gaze, society guards its suspicion. You, the nun of your own vows, will surely understand. Your heart— a startled Vidura’s eyes reached it once. But those eyes turned me selfish, proud. Still I dared to look into yours, to hold them with mine, and in that glance—sin was born. You read the language of my eyes and drifted away. Through subtle gestures, elusive and cruel, I tried to convince myself— and in this way I have been deceived for what feels like eternity. You left, hand in hand, with the frank ascetic youth. I remained by the shore, my fading mind thick with conspiracy, my eyes fierce with pain, my soul captive to waiting. I will see you again, in thi...

So many more days will pass in this weariness, in sorrow. The eyes with which I search for you, with which I have scoured the world, hide so many tears— thirteen hundred million seas would seem smaller.   I have not walked to the Bodhi tree of Sarnath, nor the birthplace of Ram. In the depths of your eyes ideals rest immovable— ancient, severe, hard as scripture.   And still the chest burns, blood spilling upon the barren dunes of sorrow, storms scattering like endless lines of sand. In the dense shade of the banyan, in a tired afternoon, are you still as beautiful as I once saw you, in the city of Janaka?   Here I live, in this city of decay and fire. Your gentle smile— a serene hermit by a silver lake. I have forgotten when I last knew if I was alive, or simply entombed inside my own corpse.   This corpse I will drag like Parthasarathi with his chariot, like the arrows that rose from the belly of Bhishma, toward the shameless cremation grounds of night. Or like Kar...

     Friedrich Hayek, in his prophetic work The Road to Serfdom ( 1944) , cautioned us about the perils of socialism. He warned that when governments, under the guise of progress, deliberately transform scientific distinctions into economic divisions, the path to the communist state is already underway.[ 1] Why must society intimidate its wise and wealthy, those who build and innovate, in the name of creating a better order? And why is it treated as a sacred duty to glorify those who foolishly believe that central socialist planning can architect the perfection of society? For socialism, in truth, is built upon this very act of deception and coercion.   Communism is a paradoxical creed — it both terrifies and seduces. And when it falls into the hands of the corrupt, the disaster becomes “gilded ruin,” suffering wrapped in shining slogans. It is a boundless Atlantic of misery without horizon or shore. The naïve utopians who once believed soon collapse into despair, an...