Another book that I read this year was Premendra Mitrer Shrestho Golpo (Best Stories of Premendra Mitra). As the title suggests, this book is a compilation of short stories by Bengali writer Premendra Mitra. Honestly speaking, I had difficulty appreciating most of the stories mainly because they have been written in an abstract manner. The stress of the writer is on depiction of the environment, human expressions and emotions, whereas the plot is secondary. But certainly, the description is flawless — all stories help you in experiencing life in varied colours. This is a characteristic of nearly whole Bengali literature irrespective of genre — it evokes emotions in you that you yourself weren’t aware of.
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I moved to this new accommodation in January this year. The design and construction of this residential complex is quite strange. None of the residents seems to have any clue about what came to the architect’s mind to have designed such a stupid tower. No ventilation, no windows, no outside view. Everything is closed with glass panes, shutters, walls. We don’t even know what colour the sky is at any time of the day or whether it is raining outside or is it sunny. 
Today I would tell you about one story that appeared in the kids’ section of the Sunday supplement of Navabharat Times and which has made the biggest impact on my lifestyle and brought the biggest change in me. 
I had gone to Delhi for some exam and was now returning to Rishikesh by evening bus. It is a usual practice among students to make the 6-hour night journey to take various competitive exams. Buses were efficient and comfortable. Bus journeys also allow us to come across different people from different backgrounds and help us see the different shades of this colourful world. 
This story had appeared in children’s magazine Lotpot. A young boy was very fond of Indian fast food, or rather street food — chaat, samosa, tikki and so on. Every other day he would demand his father to take him to the stalls offering such spicy delicacies. His father resisted a lot, but had to surrender. His mother would teach him how eating street food was not healthy, and even went to the extent of offering to make some of those snacks at home itself. But the boy didn’t listen. He did not find the same flavour in home made snacks as found in street food. In fact, he was completely addicted to the street food. His parents were very worried, but could not figure out how to deal with the problem. 
A question is generally asked — Does literature have any social responsibility or is it yet another means of aesthetic pleasure? In fact, this question is asked not just about literature, instead about all arts. However, in this post I would not go into the debate on this issue. 