I was nourished in a family where education was adored as a holy thing. My mother taught me how to show honour to a book, even to a detached page of a book, what kind of book it was, was not the matter. All kinds of books were holy books to us because no mean type of book or unbecoming book had any chance to reach our home in that beautiful calm sweet-breathing village. Francis Bacon said that people are of three types: those who are very simple, admire the books; the cunning, condemn them; the wise, use them. We were not wise people at all; but we were the true admirers of books. Many a day I have seen my mother offering alms to the beggars, especially rice collected from our own fields, if ever any book happened to fall down from our hands. Not only that, instantly we picked up the book from the ground and kissed its cover-page again and again. Still now I do it when the same thing happens to any book I hold. Modern men may consider it superstition; but this superstition helped me become a lover of books.
All the words written in a book I found near my hand during my childhood days were like the tasty foods. I devoured them all with a great appetite. Whatever the fuel is, if it comes ever to a fire, it gets burnt because the nature of fire is that it spares none. It is cruel; but through this cruelty, light is born to charm the eyes of the onlookers. My father collected books for me, carried them at home and my mother made me learn how to deal with them with fear and honour.
Throughout my whole life, I was nothing but a poet. I was born as a poet because a poet can never be made, he is born. And a poet means nothing but a fire. But I was then the hidden fire within the wood. One day I was suddenly kindled while reading an essay on our great Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. I was then only 11. But a fire need not have any age. Fire is ferocious at any age; it looks for an opportunity to be kindled, and if once kindled, it starts burning everything it gets nearby. Going through the essay, when I came to know that Rabindranath started writing poems at his 8, I became frustrated, envious and furious for being so late to start. Three years had already passed leaving me far behind. I became shocked as if I had been in a race to compete with Rabindranath. However, getting furious, I started running and that race of mine is still going on. This way I was kindled and thus I have been burning incessantly since that day of my 11th year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem