If one could keep the hundred years' roars of the mighty ocean bounded in the way that she would have been silent like a child fallen asleep, that great roaring silence could be compared to this library. Here language is silent, the flow lies still, the immortal light of the human soul is chained by dark letters and put into the prison of paper. If they ever become rebellious, break out of the boundary of silence, come straight out by burning down the fence of words! As innumerable floods are trapped into the solid ice on the top of the Himalayas, floods of the human soul are thus bounded in this library!

Man has trapped electricity within the wire. But who knew that they could put words into the confines of silence, too! Who knew that they would put music, hopes, joys, celestial signs and everything of the human hearts into wrappings of paper? Who knew that humans would imprison the past into the frame of the present, would make a bridge of books across the bottomless ocean of time?

In the library, we are standing on the confluence of paths going in thousands of directions. Some path has gone into the great sea, some has moved up to the mountain top, some down into the mysterious parts of human hearts. You may go along any ways without any restraint. Humans have made their way of emancipation in a small space like this.

Do you hear the heartbeats of humans in this library as the sound of the ocean can be heard in a conch-shell? Here the souls of dead and living humans are residing like neighbors. Arguments and counterarguments live here together like siblings. Doubt and trust, search and discovery live here side by side. Here the great and the small are leading lives in patience and quiet peace without humiliating each other.

Human voices have reached here by overcoming so many barriers of rivers, seas, mountains. This voice floats in here from the edges of so many hundreds of years. Come here where the birth concert of light is being celebrated.

The great persons who first discovered the truth of the heaven said to people gathered around them, you are the children of the heavens, you are in a celestial abode. Their voices in a thousand languages across thousands of years are echoed in this library.

We don't have anything to say to the world from this end of Bengal? We don't have any message to deliver to the mankind? Only Bengal will keep quiet in the concert of the world?

The seas at our feet aren't saying anything to us? Aren't our Ganges carrying any music of the Kailas from the head of the Himalayas? Isn't there a boundless sky above us? In our case, has anyone deleted the ever-shining starry letters from there?

We receive messages every day from home and foreign lands, from past and present. Will we compose only some newspaper items in response to these? While all nations are engraving their names on the wall of the infinite time, the name of the Bangali will have its place only at the bottom of the application paper? Human souls are in the constant struggle with the inanimate entity, soldiers are being called up through bugles from everywhere. And we will remain engaged in silly quarrels about vegetables grown in our backyard?

The soul of Bengal is overflowing with vigor after staying silent for so long. Adding the voice of Bengal will make the music of the world more melodious and transcending.

The writer is Editor, Biggan O Sangskriti (a little magazine)