3 Review(s)

The story of Amar Mitra is so self-contained that an anthology of those stories needs no introduction. Amar is now writing with both hands, he has been close to us in his stories for twenty-five-thirty years. We, his old readers, can recall his early attempts to find his story, his discovery of new tools, his shifting eye and writing pen, his humble awareness of his own abilities and the deeper art of using that awareness. A narrator or storyteller cannot finish the story he is telling, and sometimes he cannot even come close to the story. At the first time of writing such non-verbal anger, it seems, seems to be the result of my personal incompetence. In the mean-time it is sad, there will be no more of it by me. At a later stage there is also a surrender to fate - whatever can be done. And, all the while, some carelessness seems to come to mind—that the story will ultimately never be told again. Amar is now one of the main Kathwaals of Bengal. If you are busy with a work of art for so many years, that sadness gets involved in the work of art. The meaning of the story changes. The story that is being told, the story goes beyond, goes beyond, tells the story. That unspeakable thing then becomes some words of that unspeakable thing.… Amar's story feels so fresh even though it has been written for so long, he is busy with this research.