I remember one Summer day a long time back- on our short walk from my dad’s hospital to our bungalow- dad was telling me why that day was special.

It was special, he said, because it was ‘Pohela Boishakh’, the first day of the Bengali year 1400- and because Tagore had written a poem in the year 1300 wondering if anyone will read his poems at all 100 years down the line- by when, as Tagore had correctly suspected, he himself will be long dead and gone. And there we were, standing on the year 1400- 100 years down- reciting THAT poem proving to Tagore that he was gone, but his work was not!

Media, that year, declared that ‘Yes, we did! We still read Tagore’. You see- like many other things in this world- a bowl of rice and fish, rickshaws, the language we speak- Tagore is considered our very own. Tagore belongs to the entire Bengali-speaking population of the world- and of course we read him still… and that too- with much pride!

That day was special because we answered to Tagore’s question, asked 100 years back, that day- my dad said while we took that walk.

The reason I’m noting it is- today is again Bengali New Year- Pohela Boishakh. The year is 1417. I cannot believe SEVENTEEN years have passed since that summer walk with my dad! It has been more than half my life-time ago! Has it really been THAT long?

The answer is ‘yes’ and that makes me sad.