Steeped in personal experience, my work has always served as mirror to the growth or decay of my inner self. The Books of Rummage trace an unfinished story of perpetual psychological metamorphosis, with its painfully idealistic beginnings, and continuation through deliberations on shifting certainties, self-made meaning, and meaningless suffering. Years back, I was drawn to free verse as a medium for storytelling and self-discovery. With time, although the medium persisted, many objectives seemed to inescapably wander into a terrain of inherent flux. Somewhere came the realization that a mind is more process than composite; answers failed to satisfy as the questions kept changing; reality mingled with the surreal; irreplaceability fell prey to inevitability; reveries continued to intrude upon waking moments of nostalgia or terror.
Before anything, I hope to describe myself as a poet and composer of free verse. I am an Instructional Designer by profession, with a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of Calcutta, and a Masters in Literature from Jadavpur University. Book IV constitutes my debut collection of poetry.
The Magic Man
A parent can be a number of things to a child, but it’s rare to find a heartless parent. Their unconditional care is neither something to be taken for granted, nor feel entitled to, though most of us have always been guilty of making these mistakes. Growing up, my perception of my father was one of mixed understanding. He was considered by most to be a decentred individual who wasted his talent and potential in favor of addiction, a brilliant man of many vices and harbinger of suffering to his family. However, despite his many faults, he was to me a man of singular kindness, who tried to shield me from his own darker nature during my formative years. Upon a time when both he and I were stripped of our guardians, he took it upon himself to set aside his dreams and predispositions, and did whatever it took, within his hard-earned and meagre means, to provide me with an education. Reducing himself to a human being with fewer and fewer needs, he became a bulwark that protected and sustained me in times of dearth, uncertainty, and emotional upheaval, and largely made me the man I am today.
This book was written in the days, weeks, and months following the sudden and unexpected death of my father. The poems venture into inconsolable symptoms of loss, grief, guilt, regret, memory, madness, absurd irreversibility, chimerical conjurings, and reigning despair. You may not find much comfort here, dear reader, if you should so choose to read this book.
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If you’d like to see some of my work, please visit the Poetry page.