He started publishing Parichay, a literary magazine which heralded his philosophy, in 1931 and carried on with the job till 1943, when he left following ideological battle with his associates, but supplied funds nevertheless.

In 1957, he left for his final foreign trip and toured Japan and Europe before moving to United States of America to join University of Chicago to write his autobiography in English.

However he left the lucrative job midway and returned home to rejoin Jadavpur University to resume his classes of Comparative Literature, which he continued till his death.

Translation: Does the tempest halt for the sake of your blindness?• From An Acre of Green Grass The majority of our modern poets have welcomed the prose poem, but two have stood firmly against it, both in theory and practice, Sudhindranath Dutta and Annadasankar Ray.

Annadasankar has effected that marriage between poetry and wit which is at once so happy and rare; he has the secret of turning topical comments to an art, and his fun ranges from the 'People's War' to mosquito-bites.

That rippling, dancing lightness which marks his prose also animates all the verse he has written, and has led him to rediscover the chhada, the measure of our old ballads and nursery rhymes.

The moment of time is when the lovers have been separated -- irrevocably; and the whole drama, seen and revealed through memory, is charged with an anguish and a fury that the poet strains every nerve to hold in leash.

On the contrary, he is to be praised for the directness he has brought to our language, for the number of vital words and compounds he has coined, for his having made us newly and differently aware of the riches of Sanskrit, and lastly, for his effective harmonization of the commonest idioms and a classical diction, of dramatic declamation and meandering soliloquy.

The above is aptly said, for Sudhindranath gleans freely from Tagorean harvests, not, like Bishnu Dey, archly, self-consciously or with implied sarcasm, but in a straightforward manner, never trying to conceal what is true for him and each of his contemporaries, that Rabindranath lives in him.

He does not have to employ any startling or oblique means to show that he is unlike Rabindranath; often has he allowed Tagorean utterances to be heard through his voice, and yet his difference is throughout irresistible; his individuality, uniformly and totally beyond question.

A singular figure in our recent speculative prose is Sudhindranath Datta, the poet, Svagata (the title, meaning 'Soliloquies', is at once a challenge and a confession), a collection of essays in literary criticism and his only prose book so far, gives the impression that the author, aware like the others of the inequality of the spirit and the medium, the subject-matter and the language, refused, unlike the others, to adopt any evasive, though practically effective strategy, but thought out each sentence completely in English, translating it, almost word for word, into a rich and fabulous Bengali.

There is not the least deviation or compromise; the sentences, strained to the utmost for attaining a directness and a precision not natural to Bengali, are in structure as involved and elaborate as they would be in English, though necessarily heavier.

Sudhindranath is out to have all his say: he does not leave out a subject, or a thought, nor even a slight modification of it because it 'just won't go' in Bengali, a form of compromise we can discern in both Pramatha Chaudhuri and Annadasankar.

Here and there in his prose we come upon sparks to ignite our mind, exquisite, memorable, quotable phrases and sentences; yet on the whole he makes us wrestle too much, sends us too often to the voluminous dictionaries, confounds us too frequently with an almost mathematical compression; and although the few who have submitted themselves to the hardship of unravelling him have been amply repaid, the great majority of readers have not been disposed to follow suit.