For Kafka, words were like a window. Window to allow fresh light and air into his darkened room. Window to peep into the world. Window to observe what the world is doing. Window as a solace in the chaotic world. Window to look at the complexities of the moving world. Window to stop by and think. Reading Kafka gives you the pleasure of sitting by the window in solitude to observe the crowd outside.
Reading Kafka is like sitting by the window in twilight with a strange, serene, faint yellowish melancholy around.


Bhau Padhye does not deserve such a brief note. But what else can a creature like me do than to write a small blog-post about this great Marathi writer of 20th century.