W. B. Yeats’s ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

mountains surrounded by body of water

Back from a Hiatus

I have been rather irregular online primarily due to tremendous work pressure, a heat wave that swept across the plains of India and deadlines to meet. I apologize profusely to my readers for playing such truancy with my blog and writing. Hereafter I wish to rectify the same by being extremely regular with my daily scribbles and odd ruminations.

So much for now. Au revoir !

silhouette of woman raising her right hand during sunset

Agnes Grey

I was meaning to write about Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë for a very long time. However, work and other unnecessary and inconsequential matters tended to overshadow my earnest wish to do so. Although I have already read novels written by her more well known sisters such as Emily and Charlotte, Anne Brontë stands apart from the rest due to the simplicity of her emotions. Agnes Grey is filled with the importance of being good and the need for living a life more earthly and fulfilling than getting entrapped by the outwardly gaudy life of contemporary Victorian England. Agnes Grey, the protagonist is more happy within the secluded surroundings of the simple pastoral life that her family tends to celebrate than within the four walls of the Victorian bourgeois life where she has to earn her living as a governess. Indeed her adventures or misadventures (in most cases) during her tenure with two different families as a governess is what the main plot of the novel is about.

Having said that, the reader simply cannot ignore Edward Weston the hero of the novel whom the novelist presents in more a cordial light than Heathcliffe of “Wuthering Heights” or Mr. Rochester of “Jane Eyre”. Weston is the solid clergyman who happens to be around Agnes whenever she needs him and provides her with his shoulder whenever she encounters some misfortune. Edward Weston is in fact one of the most reliable male characters ever created in fiction. The only other person who may rival him in matters of reliance is Sydney Carton from “A Tale of Two Cities”.

The beauty of the novel however lies in its language and the values of simplicity and homeliness that the authoress wishes to make her readers acquainted with. Pastoral and church life is elevated as being far above the ostentation of modern city life. Further, the novelist also articulates elaborately upon the dark underbelly of Victorian alliances comprised through marriages based on money and wealth. In comparison to the marriage alliances forged by her wards, Agnes succeeds in the end in marrying the man she loves simply for domestic harmony and nothing else to overshadow the union.

I would recommend Agnes Grey to all primarily for its immaculate language, old world emotions and a general feeling of peace that the novel tends to shower upon its readers. The novel is short and succinct, and yet it carries within its folds a wonderful feeling of tranquility and bonhomie that one can associate with a world long gone and long obliterated from the present world known to the modern man or reader. A world unknown and lost within the sands of time. A world that had existed long before old pastoral England became industrialized. A world of simple village folks untouched by the complexities of modernism.

So much for now. Au revoir !

On Thoughts Abandoned…

I have often encountered “abandoned” blogs on the internet, which have often haunted my thoughts. Blogs which had been quite active once upon a time, but were abandoned by their writer/writers either due to waning interest, or for want of a better blog/website, or due to the novelty offered by the social media and their ever growing audience, or perhaps something more dark and dreary that I choose no to mention over here. Like blogs, abandoned homes, toys, books, articles of personal use, all these seem to rouse my curiosity. More than modern homes, I tend to stare at abandoned dilapidated houses or factories that are quite common in my hometown. This has been a childhood fascination that I could never relinquish once I reached adulthood. There is definitely something about the broken and derelict houses with their black howling windows that makes me ponder for a moment upon their once cheerful histories.

The same goes with the blogs too. What happened to the writer? Why didn’t he/she continue? Did the advent of the social media lure him/her away from writing or was it something else? Did a personal tragedy completely cut off the flow of words? The last one is something I can identify with on a personal level. After my Father passed away it took me years to start writing again. I am not yet completely healed, but I try to plod on as it had been his last wish to see me established as a writer of some repute. Thus, whenever I see abandoned pieces of literature the thought generally occupies my mind with regard to their writer and his/her fate.

Just like the houses, the words tend to howl back at me from within their hollow dark forms. Perhaps they wish for completion. Perhaps they do not. Perhaps being abandoned is what they have accepted as their ultimate destiny. Perhaps it is all my mind playing tricks upon me. Perhaps everything is but an illusion. Perhaps I am an illusion too. Who knows !

Au revoir !

grayscale photo of wooden house

My Literary Publications Till Date

This is to inform my gentle readers that both my books are now available worldwide across multiple sites. The following is a brief description of my books :

Megh Mallhar: The Song of the Rains (Publisher: Serene Woods, New Delhi, India, 2010)

Category: Poetry

Drops of luminous rain, slivers of vivacious emotions, dreams quivering through skies
festooned with memories, warm earth pulsating with the sound of divine anklets, and the
wistful notes of a flute wafting through unknown forests dark with blue shadows…Megh
Mallhar is about these disjointed visions. Megh Mallhar is the amalgamation of intimate
experiences. It is the first song of the youthful rains, and the final aubade of a monsoon
departing with silent footsteps. Megh Mallhar is a voyage through the myriad straits of
solitude, loneliness, betrayal and silence, finally culminating into a quest for a love that
demolishes the notions of time and space.

Megh Mallhar: The Song of the Rains is now available on multiple sites such as Apple Books, Barnes&Noble, Smashwords, Baker&Taylor, SCRIBD, Angus & Robertson, Rakuten Kobo, Gardners etc. Kindly click on the universal link given below in order to buy a copy:


Meghashyam: An Anthology of Poems (Publisher: Serene Woods, New Delhi, India, 2011)

Category: Poetry

Dreams, seen over the years, through the diaphanous veils of nebulous nights. Dreams, nurtured and cherished with unbridled affection, enmeshed within visions of tender innocence. The forest, the river, the gazebo, the palace and the temple speak in hushed tones of a love that is beyond temporal denominations. A love that straddles the ephemeral epithets of time and space, and conquers a lone wandering minstrel entrapped within its silken folds.

Meghashyam is the dark prince of luminous smiles, molten eyes, tranquil peacock feathers and enigmatic flute notes. Meghashyam is a forgotten ballad of untrammelled passion excavated from within the innermost recesses of eras smothered in infidelity. Meghashyam is one woman’s quest for a love that is the flickering flame of eternity in a mortal world enrobed in the darkness of impermanence.

Meghashyam: An Anthology of Poems is now available on multiple sites such as Apple Books, Barnes&Noble, Smashwords, Baker&Taylor, SCRIBD, Angus & Robertson, Rakuten Kobo, Gardners etc. Kindly click on the universal link given below in order to buy a copy:



The Complete Collected Poems by Lopamudra Bandyopadhyay

This edition comprises of both her earlier volumes on poetry, Meghmallhar and Meghashyam. This collection was published in the year 2023 for all lovers of poetry and the finer things of life.

In order to buy a copy click on the link given below:


Thank you !


All my books are now available on Google Play Books in the Google Play Store app. Kindly click on the links given below in order to access them.

Megh Mallhar: The Song of the Rains by Lopamudra Bandyopadhyay – Books on Google Play

Meghashyam: An Anthology of Poems by Lopamudra Bandyopadhyay – Books on Google Play


Thank you for your kindness and appreciation.

Au revoir !

About Lopamudra….

An academic by profession and a struggling writer by passion, I am an introvert who loves to spend time with her family, read books, spend time in the midst of nature and take time off from daily activities in order to simply sit and ruminate about life, its mysteries, and the myriads of philosophies that tend to baffle me.

Since I am rare on social media (having effectively relinquished their tardy company), this is my primary mode of communication with the world. Between cups of coffee and writing for my next novel, blogging is something that appeals to me the most.

I am indeed a drop of rain or a quaint fern by heart, Quiet, inconsequential and rather obscure to this turbulent and ever-changing world…

For those uninformed my name may seem rather long, however, it would be prudent to share that my first name is Lopamudra and Kalipada is the name of my father, who (during his lifetime) initiated the love for the English language in me. 🙂

Au revoir !

When all is Lost…Words are all I have

I live in a country where my language is not really appreciated. And by “my language” I mean English. Perhaps I am one of the very few Indians who may be called an Anglophile in the truest sense of the term. I live, breathe, dream, love and create in English. Since childhood, no other language has appealed to me with such intense passion. And in this journey of my romance with English, I am rather solitary. Very few people around me appreciate this language. To most Indians it is a means of getting a job. It is means of putting bread and butter on one’s table. It is simply a means of acquiring a generous bank balance. But the language is not to be loved, worshiped or even admired. It is demeaned quite often with the tag of “colonialism” pasted upon it by self professed “intellectuals” residing throughout the length and breadth of India.

Once upon a time all of the above would pain me and awaken feelings of restlessness within me. Nowadays, I think I have become successful in making peace with my pain. I live within a self-fashioned cocoon that few can penetrate. I live blissfully in a world surrounded by Victorian English, culture, music and etiquette. My words are my strength. My words become invisible shields that protect me from a fast moving world where casual conversation and banter has become the order of the day. A world where language has been reduced to frothy little messages and a mere technical exchange of words devoid of feelings, emotions and depth. At times Ludwig Wittgenstein, the legendary philosopher comes to my mind. He had coined a term for these language problems and the resulting misfortune that we face in daily life…word games. I am not an expert in philosophy, but his analysis is both astounding as well deeply relevant even to this day. We are all involved in certain language (word) games, but do we really use words in order to understand each other effectively? Maybe I have reached a stage where I am tired of the spoken word. This can however be a disaster in my professional life, as much of it depends upon my speaking ability. However, lets brush aside that ominous thought for a moment and contemplate on the infallible beauty of silence and the ultimate depth of the written word. Can the spoken word ever rival the same? I think not. Unless of course, each one of us had the ability to speak like characters in Shakespeare’s plays.

For a writer or a poet, words are everything he/she possesses. And in each one’s life a time comes when the world attempts to pilfer those words. Think about it. This pilferage happens quite invisibly or delicately. If you are both a writer as well as engaged in another profession (of a more worldly nature), the other profession may require you to fashion your words according to certain set circumstances. In a corporate office you cannot use the words of your literary life. You must use words that are dry, shrunken and devoid of anything delicate in their nature. Even in social gatherings you must tailor-make your words to suit the particular occasion. Otherwise you may be considered to be bore or a dreamer or someone who cannot make interesting conversation. And in daily life? The grocer will not understand your words unless you speak his/her language. Neither will the milkman, nor the newspaperman nor anyone else remotely linked to the maintenance of a home and hearth.

Thus, we writers change. We adapt. We break in the process. We crumble at times. We search for our language in our dreams. We search for them in books. In classics written by the Bronte sisters or Austen or Hardy or Dickens. We search for them in contemporary literature written by Coetzee, Rushdie, Pamuk or Murakami. And when the sun trips away to rest for the day, we the writers wake up to new words, new sentences, newer experiences. Something that ONLY we can understand. Not this hollow kernel of a world.

Because, when all is lost…words are all I have….

Au revoir !

painting of woman