Sudipta Mishra, Puri, 21 May 2026
I was in college then. It happened almost two decades ago, sometime between 2006 and 2007. I was playing the iconic role of Othello’s Desdemona. How magnificent my costume was! Words cannot fully describe it. We had an eminent guest that day, a notable poet of Indian English literature.
My performance left the audience spellbound. The grand spectacle of Othello stole every heart, and my portrayal of Desdemona was met with admiration from all around. Everyone expressed their surprise and appreciation in their own way.
But that particular guest selected silence. He simply walked up to me and placed in my hands his treasure — his newly released book — hoping I would read it and merge myself with the poems of anthology. But I was too fickle then to appreciate a book of poetry.
He called me almost every day, asking for my thoughts, waiting for my feedback. Alas, how foolish I was. I misunderstood him. I used to dislike poets. I thought poetry was a waste of time. I believed I should focus only on marks and academic success. And so, I threw away that precious gem. Yes, I secured good marks.
But twenty long years later, yesterday, I found that same book again. No one can measure the boundless joy I felt holding it in my hands. Why?
Because now, as a poet myself, I finally understand the silent pain and tender hope of a poet who offers his work to another soul. Now I am reading that same book, trying to feel the nuances of that golden collection, lingering over the subtitles of each poem, measuring the depth I once failed to see. Alas, that teacher is no longer here to witness the bliss I now derive from the very book I once neglected. And perhaps that is life’s quiet irony!
We often value the worth of certain gifts only when the time teaches us how to receive them.
