The first time I had come across anything written by this poet laureate of Bengali literature (Tagore is different and is unique enough to be aloof from any comparison per Se) was a poem 1946-47 as part of the curriculum of Bengali at Higher Secondary level. I had found the language dark, pain-ridden, and yet full of that everlasting-yet-soothing cold that mountaineers identify as death. In the hot throes of teen-age (yes, even a mouldy bureaucrat like me had those days) I had decided to avoid this poet for good. But luck brought me back to his orbit, as I had to deal with "Banalata Sen", and then this book, again as part of curriculum, but this time of Bengali Literature for Civil Services exam. I found the going tough because the language was full of colours and images that I loved, and yet they smelt of decay-darkness and death. Slowly, I was enamoured by this language, and then started dipping inside. Today, after the passage of more than 12 years since my first reading of the book, its passages & lines keep haunting me. They rise unbidden to my lips whenever something goes beyond my vacuous shell of banal living and is felt by someone inside. If you haven't read it yet, then you are condemning that inner you to that banality. Read this book, and feel alive.