Summary:This day, Today, when looked at from the window of Future; Wouldn't it seem golden? But today it feels like just another day. Why does all this preciousness have to pass to be seen? Why can't it get its due while it lives? Unfortunately that's the way it has always been. The Future seems to hold a certain value for The Past. But The Present seems to be like an unfinished coin. It's still incomplete to derive any worth.
The poems in this collection 'The Camphor Of Night' are little things stolen from life which found their way to a treasury box in which they lay locked for years until these little things developed a life of their own and hence they need to be set free, because now is their time to breathe.