Literature is the only place where the past, present and the future blend. Yet we often search our yesterdays to embellish the leaves. Efflorescence of reminiscences either mirthful or pungent may be there. Whatever mellifluent it be, at last creates a nostalgic pain in the heart and torrid memories may become a consolation or a reminder. It is the irony of the time. Each literary work is unique. That uniqueness itself is its signature. It is not just a way of writing but the whole attitude and life reflect in it. Here I leave my signature… humble yet earnest.

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