“অল্প অল্প গল্প কথায় / মায়ের পূজা স্বপ্ন গাঁথায়”...
8 October, 2018
He’s only ten, but in so many ways, wiser than me. Through laughter, questions, and silent stares, he reminds me who I was before the world grew noisy.
Amsterdam in spring is more than tulips… it’s colour and commerce blooming together. Each bulb carries a legacy… of trade, obsession, and beauty that once shook the world economy.
From dog-eared pages to Bluetooth earphones, I’ve read in every way. What matters isn’t format...it’s surrender. A book is a mirror, no matter the frame.
A good colleague listens. A great boss uplifts. And somewhere between titles and tea breaks, we discover the quiet power of kindness in the workplace.
As flags flew and the world watched, I stood not just for myself, but for a billion dreams. Here’s my Olympic story...personal, proud, poetic.
It wasn’t planned. One day I simply began to write… memories, meanings, metaphors. This blog is a tribute to the quiet beginning of a lifelong conversation with my inner self.
The Bhadralok is not an outdated relic. He is me… and many like me. A man of Oxford and Kolkata… erudition in speech, warmth in manners, and dhoti in spirit.
Some cities whisper… Varanasi chants. BHU was more than a campus—it was a calling. A life moment carved in sandstone ghats, eternal rituals, and quiet conversations with the divine across time.
Dad, are you going to school?” my son asked. Oxford wasn’t just a campus—it was a crucible of unlearning and rebirth. Collegiate life at 40 is not what I expected.