Rain is coming diwn so hard that the windows if the classroom are almost vibrating.Water snakes down the glass in crooked streams. The sky outside is a dull, endless grey, and every few seconds thunder rolls somewhere in the distance.Inside, nobody is paying attention to the weather. Because Dr. Arindam Roy's voice is loud enough to compete with it.“Most of you reduce Jibanananda Das's Bodh to depression. Sadness. Existential misery.” He pauses, turning away from the blackboard. “But have you ever stopped to ask why the poem refuses to let you go?”A few students look up.Arindam walks slowly between the