We do not know how the idea came to his mind?

Nobo Kissen Ghose (1837-1918) is one of those poets of Indian English poetry who are so good at writing occasional, eventual verses and in doing that he outdoes many a writer. Michael Madhusudan Dutt as a poem is of a tributary nature; is a homage paid to the great Bengali poet who was a rage in those times. A writer who tried to emulate the Europeans, wanted to be English-like, adopted Christianity by becoming a convert, went to foreign for education, married European ladies, lived lavishly and had the desire of being an English poet was a typical whimsical personality, a literary stalwart. A barrister-at-law, he was a polyglot, a traveler, a letter-writer and a true man of literature. Raked by literary pursuits, whims and whiffs, he was first a poet who tended to European culture and manner of living in order to learn from, but something drew him apart and he contributed to improvising the fusion.

His craze and fever were as for how to create and re-create, how to sing of? So undaunted and daring he was in his stance, the desire to add to and he chose Meghnad rather than anyone. What did it strike him to write? We do not know the reason, but as a poet he is epical and Miltonic pre-dating Aurobindo in his selection of topics and pursuing of the Miltonic style. His love of the historical matter can be envisaged even in The Captive Ladie.

His love for bohemian life, romantic whims; interest in love-marriages and choosing of partners by mutual consent and abandoning of his own for European and English culture and trend and returning to his own roots finally have added to his wealth of treasure.  

To read the poem is to go through his biography and to arrange things chronologically. Several questions crop up in mind. How popular was he in his age? How was the response from the readers in his lifetime? Who were his admirers? When was his tomb made? Did he suffer neglect after his death? The image of Meghnad haunted his mind, and he accomplished what a few could have, a few are endowed with.

The poet is mourning the untimely loss of Michael Madhusudan Dutt who was but a great writer and whose literary genius we could evaluate and assess it then during colonial times. A son of Bengal and Bengali literature, he deviated and digressed but returned back to his roots which, but he admitted it while turning to his native vernacular and enriching with his own compositions on an experimental basis. Had he lived longer, what would he have? Had we felicitated him, we would have done it right, but the days were not ours, not even the times.  

What did he get in his lifetime? Did he get any honor? What could we do? Where his bust, memorial? Who are the travelers to travel to? Where are his descendants? How do I cook up the biography? Where is his house? Bengal too is now divided.

What a life did he get? What life did he live in? There is of the Ramlila tradition in him, the element of the folk and classical theatres. But the idea of giving an impetus to Meghnad  is a grand design of assigning with some grand plan and arrangement which but he executed it so ably and with dexterity. Only a man who is rebellious, revolutionary and romantic can take the imaginative flight with his anti-hero appearing to be Shelleyian.

But in terms of blank verse, literary essaying or poetizing, there is none to revel him, he is unparallelled, a writer par excellence as he takes liberties with the language. Linguistic contours with word flows, sentence connects with usage and phraseology make up for his metrical compositions.

How painful was his end? How could it be? Had he to meet with his abrupt end in such a way? The poet does not need busts and mausoleums or gravestones to tell where he lies, where his honored dust lies , his works just will how he was, how his immortal and priceless his writing is. Burning with poetic frenzy, romantic caprice, he plucked the stars, felt celestial fires and tried to write down burning the midnight lamp.

In Memoriam - Michael Madhusudan Dutt

Mourn, poor Bangala, mourn, thy hapless state !
Thy swan, thy warbler's snatched by ruthless fate !
Oh, snatched in prime of life, thy darling child,
Datta who sang in magic numbers wild
Great Megnath — Indra's haughty conquering foe,
Hurled by brave Lakshman to the shades below !
— Hushed is the tuneful voice that thrilled the soul,
Silent the lyre whose swelling notes did roll
In streams of music sweet that did impart
A life— a soul ev'n to the dullest heart !

Ah, poor unhappy land ! how sad thy doom.
Thy noblest sons are lost in vigor's bloom !
Oh Death how stern, implacable thou art
To single them out for thy cruel dart !
Ye children of Bangala, o'er his bier
Pour forth your sorrows — shed the grateful tear
To wit and talents due, and genius rare,
Now lost beyond the reach of hope and care !

What though no pageant grand, no funeral show
Followed his hearse in sable garb of woe ?
What though no column high, no living bust
Should mark the spot where lies his honoured dust ?
He needs not these, though prized by little men ;
His works his noblest monument remain !
Oh, crown your poet's grave with flowery wreaths,
The flesh is dead, th' immortal spirit breathes !