There is a joy in writing. The writer am I, the reader am I and the critics are those who do not read. They but revel in fracturing content of a write-up and attributing to the author intent he may not have even been aware of. Such is the intellectual predicament of the day.
But the joy, nonetheless, remains as thoughts flow out in lyrical rhythms, reminding every moment that the Divine writes in Hus tireless stretch from the alpha to the omega of cosmic manifestation.
It was at the dawn of consciousness in those primrose hours of early adolescence that this penning of emotions and thoughts in rhythmic patterns began, and at the fountainhead of it stood Tagore in all his overwhelming influence, like a sun showering its beams in dispersed chromatic confluence through dewdrops blossoming unto life, or as cloud cover under the scorching midday heat of the summer sun, or, perchance, as a Nor'wester revealing in its whirl and flow the hidden secrets of a deeper realm. Tagore did it all.
Unfinished and expanding ...
Written by Sugata Bose
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