Aug 06, 2012 06:31 PM
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(Updated Aug 06, 2012 10:48 PM)
Poetry cannot be contrived; it is a spontaneous outburst mirroring the mind of the poet at its intricate and exquisite best. ‘Whispering Paths’ is Sneha Subramanian Kanta’s debut compilation of forty poems and six short stories.
Finding poetry even in the mundane is a calibre by itself. A true poet draws inspiration from the dullest of routine and everyday occurrences. Sneha’s poetry - emotional, contemplative and at times disconcertingly probing - sweeps over a vast ambit – that of life’s landscape! Her choice of expression is marked by a distinct precision and brevity – almost like a sharp file injected with surprising ease to the most tender core of one’s being – reader’s heart.
When Sneha writes about the wooden table shared by three generations – her grandmother, mother and herself… “of a beautiful wood exterior and sturdy pillars strong enough to hold three different generations intact”, even an inanimate object pulsates with life - the human compulsion to hold on to something as illusory as memories!!!
Talking of Raju, his deprived childhood, Sneha says… “and at evening when he returns he asks his mother ‘is this independence the one bapuji was talking about the other day?’ The paradox of existence is craftily underscored - a compelling, guilt-evoking query pointing an accusatory finger at the more privileged patricians of society. A contemporaneous flavour invades as one recalls Srijato’s curt quip, “It is only in this birth that you are a common man. One of the plebeian mass. Depressed because you have lost your Ration Card…”
Sneha’s take on the City Of Joy.. "and the trams that tuck you in easily and transport you in an easy pulling nonchalant manner like the conductors moustache grown grey with time and he doesn’t seem to mind" Kolkata once more grows on me with its in-bred fatalism – a survival in self-denial – a carefree, casual gait forward while its past keeps tugging back at every step.
On relationship, a distinct undercurrent of pathos streaks in Sneha’s poetry – “ you are that love which cannot be forgotten” or “He walks a mile with me/ Hand in hand/ And there are things in life/ Difficult to understand” – a tone of subtle, self-reproach creeps in as the scramble to keep pace with time and the loved one pulls one down.
“I walk through the temple when the priest proclaims that this day is good” instantly reminds of Ghalib’s unforgettable satire “ik barhaman ne kaha hai ke yeh saal achha hai” (The Wise One has proclaimed that this year shall be good). Life is nothing but a preparation for an afterlife!
…“this is the best day of life they say when little embellishments make you look desirable” – the conversational tone belies the harshness of summation. The same mood is observable in her fiction when Sneha writes ,” There are ways of belonging… A ghetto of sorts and who sings songs everyday awaiting a blessed day.” – the aftermath of Partition – a widow forced into re-marriage, struggling to get over her past and coming to terms with her bleak present - or is it our strife ridden Motherland estranged from her Other Half, longing, mourning, suffering in silence, in the hands of the plunderers, sons of her soil, like the nameless widow who is mercilessly thrashed by her so-called husband every night? (An Abode Of Outcasts)
Sneha’s fiction has a whirling complexity. An air of pensive isolation and intense brooding pervade the narratives. “The flowers they grow in one corner of the garden where I played where he played until I lost him…my brother Madhav”. The shadows of the past, the despair of eternal loss, the indescribable pain of separation, that impalpable sense of something missing in life which cannot be otherwise precisely captured in words lurk ubiquitously in her fiction. Just like the painting hanging in Neeraj babu’s room, “I look at the painting…It has nothing striking, for sure. In fact, you wouldn’t understand what it is…It gains meaning from one interpretation to another.”(Daybreak)
“What is our speech, all about except “a stream of consciousness”…I have learned that silence speaks, in volumes” (The Obituary) And that is how one may describe Sneha’s maiden work – a lot which remains unsaid, unexplained, untold. It is this ‘speechlessness’ of her words that screams out from the pages with one urgent entreaty ‘explore me’!
The self-confessed literary influences on the writer are quite apparent. Nevertheless, there is a kind of sparkling novelty which drives the readers. Sneha indulges in experimentation, her presentation of the visuals is exemplary, her musings have a qualitative rapture – a free-flowing style which merges into the consciousness of the readers. The choice of expressions undulates over rugged terrains to river-washed banks, to velvety lush green blossoming dales. Her “thought corpses” flow into “flurry of seconds” and all throughout she holds the hands of the readers and guide deftly – a journey of a tender, loving heart to a questioning, ireful mind subsiding into an awakened, blissful soul – the stretch is complete!
We await Sneha’s next venture!!!
