I read The River Woman and Other Poems slowly, the way one reads something that does not want to be rushed. A few poems at night. One in the quiet between two tasks. Sometimes just a single page, because the lines had a way of lingering—like the aftersound of water moving past stones long after the river itself has slipped out of view.   Renu Roy’s poetry does not announce itself loudly. It arrives softly, almost tentatively, and then stays. This is a collection that lives in

Some books announce themselves with a thesis. This one arrived like humidity on skin—quiet, unavoidable, already inside the room before I knew it. I was reading, but I was also standing on a riverbank at night, ash cooling, water moving, the world refusing to pause for grief. That opening feeling never really left me. Dhara doesn’t ask for attention. It assumes you will eventually slow down enough to listen.   Bal Krishna Thakur’s Dhara: A Journey of Grief, Continuity, and In

I remember noticing my hands first.   They were still holding the book, long after the sentence had ended. Not gripping it. Just resting there, as if letting go would mean admitting the moment was over. The room had begun to dim in that slow, undecided way evenings do—neither day nor night, just tired of choosing. I was slouched, slightly crooked, aware that my body had been still for too long. The first thought that came wasn’t articulate. It was simpler.   I’ve been rushing