As a young poet harbouring an old soul, Mahua Sen’s second solo book of poems, “Nostalgia Crafting a Home Within,” is lyrical, luscious and vivid, reminding one of a mosaic or the ever-shifting patterns of a kaleidoscope. Replete with haibuns and tankas, the yearning for home and the childhood left behind seep into almost every poem like a refrain. Home for her is “a four-lettered verb, irrevocably entwined with the cadence of my breath.” Her brush is delicate as she paints mesmerising pictures of her idyllic home or her hometown, Forbesgunj, and contrasts them to the sterile confines of her hostel in Delhi or her dusty trail of reality. The sepia-tinted photographs add to the sense of nostalgia pervading the entire anthology. It is her knack of forging unusual words together that conjures up a whole new image and meaning.

The title is derived from the poem “Echoes of Childhood Fragrance,” which is a delightful exploration of the smells, scents and aromas of childhood: the smell of her father’s paan, the unique soothing scent of her mother, and the smoky aroma of her grandmother’s saree as she prepared the various home-made sweets like labanga latika and shor bhaja on an earthen stove. The musty smell of old things, the aroma of jaggery in the neighbourhood grocery shop, the petrichor during Kalbaishakhi (Nor’wester), and the heady aroma of shiuli (parijat) flowers are all reminders of the home left behind.

“Nostalgia seeps through the cracks of my heart, crafting a home within. In these moments, I need not rehearse my brightest smile; instead, an involuntary grin dances upon my lips, accompanied by pearls of tears. I feel the warm embrace of these emotions on my bare skin and within my soul. My memory is intricately entwined with my olfactory senses.” Echoes of Childhood Fragrance.

The poem “Flavours” depicts moments not as a stack of seconds but as a blend of meetha, khatta, teekha and chatpata, but indelible memories. The agony of her grandmother’s passing is like a vicious morsel of lal mirch stuck in her throat; the tulsi flavour in her tea reminds her of her first crush; the sunny day is described as “kesar sun bathed” while the teekha days remind her of her toddler sitting on her lap as she soothed his scrapes.

Reading the poem “Red” almost gives you a heady feeling, for its rich imagery as Sen embarks on another trip to nostalgia, touching upon her childhood home, the shelter of her lover’s embrace, or the ‘red’ Rajdhani Express, which takes her mother away from her.

“Red, too, adorns my favoured lip tint –

Ruby Woo-kissed lips, resolute and unflinching,

Life’s vivid pigments brushed upon the canvas of my being,

A jubilant ode to all that has been, is, and shall ever be.” – Red.

“Charulata” is about Ray’s masterpiece on forbidden love, and Sen’s Charu tells Amal that his presence lingers on, concealed within the cloak of silence.

“Within me, I carry more of you than I do of myself. The epicentre of my being now bears the weight of memories, suffused with the scent of bloodstains, amplifying the tumultuous chaos within.” – Charulata.

Sen’s “Binodini” which is dedicated to Rabindranath Tagore, reminds one of Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” when she asks Behari whether the world will brand her as a pariah or if she was the culprit for daring to love.

“Now, I keep the memories and pain

in my sandook between the folds of my white saris.” – Binodini.

Another one written in the form of a diary entry by Anne Frank and beginning with “Dear Kitty,” Frank’s imaginary friend, is truly poignant as Sen gives voice to the unending darkness in Anne’s anguish and her desperate yearning for freedom but ends by offering hope.

“I believe that a time will arrive when humanity

Will cast off the iron chains forged by their own kind.

Liberated from the bonds of ceaseless suffering.” – Hope is a thing with feathers.

Water is a recurring theme; sometimes it is the river Koshi from her home town or the one that flows in her mind, which she endearingly names Hiraeth. Even nostalgia flows like water, often seeping in and, at times, gushing, and the memories swirl and swim.

The poems often take you back to your past and rekindle your own memories—the childhood left behind, where life was far simpler than the complex present. This is truly a book of poems to be treasured and read more than once instead of being just a one-time read.

The author is Special Correspondent, The Statesman