Kala Krishnan’s latest collection circles around love, but not in the usual, predictable way. These poems don’t rush to explain what love is or what it should look like. Instead, they stay with its uncertainties—the way it changes over time, the way it draws people close and then quietly sets them apart again.

There’s a clear influence of Sangam poetry in how the emotions are handled—nothing feels overstated, yet everything carries weight. The poems pay attention to distance, longing, and those silences that often say more than words. At the same time, Krishnan brings in elements from Indian classical music and even cartography, which gives the collection an interesting edge. Love here feels like something you can trace and map, even if the lines keep shifting.

What stands out most is her language. It moves easily between poetry and prose, sometimes so seamlessly that you stop noticing the difference. A few pieces read like fragments of thought, others like something overheard rather than formally written. This gives the book a quiet intimacy, though it also means that some sections take a bit more effort to fully settle into.

The relationship at the centre of the collection unfolds gently. There are no dramatic highs or lows—just small, telling moments. A pause, a memory, a shift in tone. It’s in these details that the poems find their strength. Krishnan seems more interested in how people stay connected, even as things change around them, than in making any big statement about love itself.

This is not a collection that demands attention right away. It grows on you slowly. Some readers might find its pace too subdued, but if you’re willing to spend time with it, there’s a lot to take in.

In the end, the book feels less like a performance and more like a conversation—one that continues even after you’ve put it down.