I ordered just two copies of this unique book because I went only by the title –what with my limitations on tippling. So the book remained uncorked in my cupboard for two weeks.  Presto, I got myself freed from my other commitments today. Oh boy, I never knew when I finished the book! I raced through it which gave little resistance. Besides I felt no need to look up for any single word.  From the outside, the contents are unassuming like any strong wine.  I also found the book a departmental store, sans the usual apparent labyrinths. I traversed effortlessly as though placed on a conveyer belt gliding seamlessly through the interface between prose, verse and nonfiction laced with autobiography. 
 
I recollected my journey to Darjeeling some years ago via Siliguri.  Kiriti is connected to this place as per the book.  While reading his book, I got an illusion that the author himself was sitting across me in the train and reading out the text to me. 
 
His narrative is both windy and sedate like I was on a rollercoaster of a train. Sometimes I was treated with some hardboiled home truths including life in India, and at other times interesting tidbits of his personal and intellectual life, throwing in a dash of professional dentistry and humor in between. He quoted some precious gems by great men eloquently and aptly. I did not open my mouth throughout ‘his readings’, lest I would make him veer off the track.
 
By the way, I am used to see a verse embossed in the corner of a picture in Japanese Haiga poetry, as also verses juxtaposed with prose in  Japanese Haibun . I saw traces of both those creative forms blended here in this book as if they are ‘on the house’, without the author knowing that I am sure.  I wish he should seriously imbibe those poetic forms too, in his future books.  His autobiographical account is unique that I can hardly see a parallel in any other's.

When I completed my bout with this gem of a book, I checked my feet. They are yet steady but not with my mind; the author was still talking to me.  I borrow here one of his ‘clippings’ among the vignettes, though not illustrative of his entire little book:
 
Vermillion 

My earphone whispers, and
lips glued to the chewing gum.
My glasses moisten
As I find you eyesome.
Is this what they call love?