Even without understanding anythingĪbout the majesty of love, I fell in love with Labanya. Was when the magic of good writing touched me for the first time. Understood at that time, but those words overwhelmed and intoxicated me. Page, enrapt in some wondrous desperation. The last poem, translated as 'The Last Poem', ‘Farewell, My Friend’). Something other than a ‘good boy’ seemed quite attractive to me. I had no desire to protect myself from ‘corruption’. Reading such ‘novels and plays’ was sure to corrupt our young minds. OurĮlders were not as lenient as they are now. But laying hands on the books for the adults was a strict no-no. Reading those books hardly took any time atĪll. I voraciously read-ate them with my eyes-whateverīengali were few and far between. Some torn pieces of Tagore’s books in a closet. During one summer vacation at my maternal uncle’s place, I found Reading Tagore’s novels at a very inappropriate age. Reading Chokher Bali (1901 translated as 'The Eyesore', 'Binodini', 'A Grain of Sand') again after a long time! Mustīe at least thirty years.
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