I am Tamoso Deep. I live on this earth to change it to a tulip-colored eternal forest of spring festival. I want to see a world of spring love before my death. Every human-being is a flower. I am also a flower. One day I will become dry. I want that my dust of tear drops will grow new flowers.

I don't believe in any religion. I was born in a Muslim family. I saw what is the actual grace of Islam. So I lost my faith when I was only 10 years old. But actually I was swinging from Islam to atheism and from atheism to Islam until my age 13. I had finally overcome all kind of believes in age 13. Many questions had come into my mind, and once I discovered that Araz Ali Matubbar had asked the same questions that came into my mind long before me. Then I had become a real atheist.

I don't want everybody to be atheist. Since it is not possible. I want everybody to be secular, though I don't like the character of secular since they believe in religion and always speak against the truthfulness of other faiths labeling themselves "secular". Secularism has become a very useful weapon for blind-minded peoples. They always say that their religion is only true and that's why they are secular. Secularism  now is a synonym to modern fundamentalism. Fundamentalists use to hide their real face under the umbrella of secularism. Yet there are a lot of unbeliever people who are really secular and also there are a very few religious people. Their secularism is real. I want people to be real secular. Secularism doesn't mean that secular believer will write books against all other religion he or she doesn't believe in. Secular atheist can write, since they don't believe in any religion. But when a person writes a book to tell that his or her religion is only truth, he or she no more remains a secular, but just an extremist. People are of two kinds- believer and atheist. Atheist can write against religion, and religious can write against atheism. But if he or she is not secular, only then he or she can write against other religions. I saw a lot of people from this kind. They are just fraud and communal. I want honest and secular people, either they are believer or atheist.

I always believe in freedom of speech. My lifestyle is so modern, people call it unsocial. If unsocial means a person who doesn't believe in social systems, then I am of course unsocial. And I want everyone to be it.

Taslima Nasrin said- if a girl want to be a real human-being, she has to be ruined in the eyes of society. I believe in it. I am also ruined, people at laest call me ruined. And I am very proud of it.

I want to see a free world, a world of freedom. It can't be explained in language that how much power freedom gives to a human-being. I want freedom from every area of society, law and mind.

I love to write. I write poems, stories, novels and dramas. I also write on philosophy.

I like art, from every area. I listen musics, often also compose. My favourite music is Rabindra Sangeet (Tagore Song) and western classical. I admire Beethoven, Mozart and Rabindranath Tagore very much. In Bengali music, after Rabindra Sangeet , my second choice is Kobir Sumon and Ritika Sahni. And then Anjan Dutt. I like Ravi Shankar and Satyajit Ray in Indian instrumental.

My favorite poets are Rabindranath Tagore and Taslima Nasrin. First one is poet of love, and second one is poet of revolt. My feelings match with both poets.

I am very fond of art film. I like Rituporno Ghosh and Goutom Ghosh very much. My favourite films are Abar Aranye, Chokher Bali and Dreamgirls. Last two touch me very much.

I like Elfride Jelinek and Jean-Paul Sartre. I read a novel of Jelinek and a drama of Sarte. They are really great artists. And I also like Rabindranath Tagore. Not actually I like him, I just love him. His "Sheshher Kobita" is one of my few best favourite books.

Though I paint often, I don't understand the art of painting so much.

My favourite drama writers are Jean-Paul Sarte, Rabindranath Tagore, Manoj Mitra and Anan Zaman. One of my favorite films, Dreamgirls, is actually based on a drama written by Bill Condon. So, from that side, he is also one of my favourite drama writers. Though I know about only one play of him.

Though I don't believe in the word "social", I also have to do acting in society, when I go to work. But in other areas outside the workplace, I am always what I am.

This is my world, where love, art and philosophy stay together.

And with this world, there is one more thing - my life.
A life which has crossed thousands mountains of rocks without any water. The life which had only one god- love.
Here is my life's story.

If I thought my answer were given

to anyone who would ever return to the world,

this flame would stand still without moving any further.

But since never from this abyss

has anyone ever returned alive, if what I hear is true,

without fear of infamy I answer you.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S. Eliot