I have discovered poetry. A friend needs to be credited for this. He read me a few of Sunil Ganguly's poems, and got me hooked, not only to Bengali, but to all kinds of verses.

Not that I was a complete newcomer to poetry. From my schooldays, I remember Eliot's Macavity (the Mystery Cat), Nissim Ezekiel's Night of the Scorpion, excerpts from Madhusudan Dutt's Meghnadbadh Kabya. In high school, I lapped up Tagore's "Shesher Kabita", a must for any poetry connoisseur. Tagore's translation of Donne was as memorable as the lyrical love story of Amit and Labanya. But what I liked, and memorised, especially was the last poem, "Kaaler jatrar dhwani shunitey ki pao..." In college, I switched loyalties to Premendra Mitra. His elegant prose I was acquainted with, but his poetry captured my heart. Briefly. The race to graduate honourably and get myself a job took precedence over the gentler form of literature.

After that, I could never find the time to read verses. It required a lot more patience, more time and space for introspection, which I did not have and could not afford. Then, after 13-odd years, poetry found me again.

Suddenly, I am reading poem after poem, buying anthologies, begging friends for that rare Pablo Neruda collection. Revelations follow revelations. Over the past three months, I have discovered that Sunil Ganguly's Neera poems are an exquisite ode to love, Shakti Chattopadhyay's "Jete pari..." tugs at your heartstrings, Sylvia Plath's quirky perspectives amaze you, while the intermingling of patriotism and passion in Pablo Neruda's verses fascinates you.

I confess. I have fallen in love again. With verse.

Thank you, friend.