There comes a time in most thinking people's lives when they begin to ask themselves about the meaning and purpose of their existence. I am not surprised that my friend Vishwanath, now in the 92nd year of his life and with much achieved should ask himself these very questions and put his posers for answers into lyrical prose and verse. Having questioned his own existence, the poet goes on to problems of the ego, his loneliness among milling crowds, his closeness to his mother and his partner in life. It appears that pent up emotions burst the bounds behind which they had been contained for nine decades and now flow unchecked. Other emotions also find expression: watching a turbulent sea with wave after wave crashing on the shore, a winter's day in the mountains with snow-flakes covering the landscape and much else…'' –Khushwant Singh