Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of Remnants: A Journey through Grief, Love and Becoming by Aarti Upadhyay

Have you ever sat in silence, scrolling through your thoughts at 2 AM, trying to make sense of everything you’ve lost, loved, and outgrown? That’s the space Remnants lives in—those quiet, aching, deeply human corners of our lives. It doesn’t shout for your attention. It gently walks in, sits beside you, and says, “Me too.”

Aarti Upadhyay’s Remnants isn’t just a collection of poems—it’s an experience. This book is her poetic debut, and yet, it carries the depth and emotional maturity of someone who has lived through every word she pens. There’s an honesty in her voice that doesn’t try to impress; it just is—raw, unfiltered, and deeply relatable.

At its core, Remnants is a poetic chronicle of grief and healing. But calling it just that would be an injustice. It’s about what remains after life breaks us open—the pieces we hold onto, the ones we’re forced to let go of, and the parts we rebuild, slowly, gently, with trembling hands and cautious hope.

There’s no chronological plot here—this is poetry, after all—but what binds these verses together is the emotional journey. Whether it’s the echo of a love lost, the hollow silence after a goodbye, or the flicker of hope that peeks through a tear-stained page, each poem contributes to a larger mosaic of becoming.

Reading Aarti’s poetry feels like reading someone’s diary—except it’s not awkward or intrusive. It’s brave. Her writing is refreshingly free of literary pretense. There’s no forced rhyme, no overworked metaphor. Instead, there’s rhythm in vulnerability and music in the silence between her words.

She writes like she’s speaking directly to you. There’s intimacy here, a softness even in the pain. And when she chooses to leave things unsaid, that silence is just as powerful.

One of the most beautiful aspects of Remnants is how it never tries to ‘fix’ grief. It lets it breathe. Aarti explores love—not just romantic, but familial, platonic, even self-love—through the lens of loss. She doesn’t offer tidy resolutions. Instead, she gives us space to sit with our own emotions.

The themes of self-discovery, survival, and resilience are intricately woven throughout. And somewhere between the lines, you start seeing your own story mirrored back at you.

There’s a deliberate lack of rigid structure here, which mirrors the very nature of grief—nonlinear, unpredictable, messy. The pacing is gentle; you can read it all in one sitting or return to it over days. Either way, it lingers with you.

I didn’t expect to cry, but I did. Not the loud, dramatic kind—more like tears that slip out quietly while reading a line that hits too close to home. This book has a way of wrapping itself around your memories, pulling out things you thought you’d buried.

Some lines stayed with me long after I’d put the book down. Others made me stop mid-sentence and just feel. And honestly, how often does that happen with poetry?

The real strength of Remnants lies in its sincerity. Aarti doesn’t try to be profound—she just is. There’s courage in her simplicity. The emotional clarity of her words, the way she balances heaviness with hope, and the consistent tone of compassion make this collection unforgettable.

If I had to nitpick, I’d say I wanted more. Not because anything felt incomplete, but because I wasn’t ready to let go. A few poems could have benefited from slightly more polish, but even their rawness feels intentional—like an unhealed wound you’re not supposed to cover up.

This book felt personal. Like someone else finally put into words the things I hadn’t been able to say. As someone who’s experienced both quiet heartbreak and loud grief, Remnants didn’t just resonate—it comforted. It reminded me that healing isn’t linear, and that sometimes, simply surviving is a form of grace.

Aarti Upadhyay’s Remnants is one of those rare poetry collections that doesn’t demand your attention—it earns it. With its unflinching honesty and quiet strength, it becomes a companion for anyone navigating grief, growth, or just the simple act of feeling deeply.

If you’ve ever loved, lost, or stood at the edge of your own becoming, this book is for you.

Have you ever read something that felt like it was written for you? What poetry collection has left a mark on your heart? Let me know—I’d love to hear your story.

#PoetryThatHeals #GriefAndGrowth #WordsThatStay #AartiUpadhyay #RemnantsPoetry

Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of Remnants: A Journey through Grief, Love and Becoming by Aarti Upadhyay

Have you ever sat in silence, scrolling through your thoughts at 2 AM, trying to make sense of everything you’ve lost, loved, and outgrown? That’s the space Remnants lives in—those quiet, aching, deeply human corners of our lives. It doesn’t shout for your attention. It gently walks in, sits beside you, and says, “Me too.”

Aarti Upadhyay’s Remnants isn’t just a collection of poems—it’s an experience. This book is her poetic debut, and yet, it carries the depth and emotional maturity of someone who has lived through every word she pens. There’s an honesty in her voice that doesn’t try to impress; it just is—raw, unfiltered, and deeply relatable.

At its core, Remnants is a poetic chronicle of grief and healing. But calling it just that would be an injustice. It’s about what remains after life breaks us open—the pieces we hold onto, the ones we’re forced to let go of, and the parts we rebuild, slowly, gently, with trembling hands and cautious hope.

There’s no chronological plot here—this is poetry, after all—but what binds these verses together is the emotional journey. Whether it’s the echo of a love lost, the hollow silence after a goodbye, or the flicker of hope that peeks through a tear-stained page, each poem contributes to a larger mosaic of becoming.

Reading Aarti’s poetry feels like reading someone’s diary—except it’s not awkward or intrusive. It’s brave. Her writing is refreshingly free of literary pretense. There’s no forced rhyme, no overworked metaphor. Instead, there’s rhythm in vulnerability and music in the silence between her words.

She writes like she’s speaking directly to you. There’s intimacy here, a softness even in the pain. And when she chooses to leave things unsaid, that silence is just as powerful.

One of the most beautiful aspects of Remnants is how it never tries to ‘fix’ grief. It lets it breathe. Aarti explores love—not just romantic, but familial, platonic, even self-love—through the lens of loss. She doesn’t offer tidy resolutions. Instead, she gives us space to sit with our own emotions.

The themes of self-discovery, survival, and resilience are intricately woven throughout. And somewhere between the lines, you start seeing your own story mirrored back at you.

There’s a deliberate lack of rigid structure here, which mirrors the very nature of grief—nonlinear, unpredictable, messy. The pacing is gentle; you can read it all in one sitting or return to it over days. Either way, it lingers with you.

I didn’t expect to cry, but I did. Not the loud, dramatic kind—more like tears that slip out quietly while reading a line that hits too close to home. This book has a way of wrapping itself around your memories, pulling out things you thought you’d buried.

Some lines stayed with me long after I’d put the book down. Others made me stop mid-sentence and just feel. And honestly, how often does that happen with poetry?

The real strength of Remnants lies in its sincerity. Aarti doesn’t try to be profound—she just is. There’s courage in her simplicity. The emotional clarity of her words, the way she balances heaviness with hope, and the consistent tone of compassion make this collection unforgettable.

If I had to nitpick, I’d say I wanted more. Not because anything felt incomplete, but because I wasn’t ready to let go. A few poems could have benefited from slightly more polish, but even their rawness feels intentional—like an unhealed wound you’re not supposed to cover up.

This book felt personal. Like someone else finally put into words the things I hadn’t been able to say. As someone who’s experienced both quiet heartbreak and loud grief, Remnants didn’t just resonate—it comforted. It reminded me that healing isn’t linear, and that sometimes, simply surviving is a form of grace.

Aarti Upadhyay’s Remnants is one of those rare poetry collections that doesn’t demand your attention—it earns it. With its unflinching honesty and quiet strength, it becomes a companion for anyone navigating grief, growth, or just the simple act of feeling deeply.

If you’ve ever loved, lost, or stood at the edge of your own becoming, this book is for you.

Have you ever read something that felt like it was written for you? What poetry collection has left a mark on your heart? Let me know—I’d love to hear your story.

#PoetryThatHeals #GriefAndGrowth #WordsThatStay #AartiUpadhyay #RemnantsPoetry

Sameer Gudhate presents the Book Review of Remnants: A Journey through Grief, Love and Becoming by Aarti Upadhyay

Have you ever sat in silence, scrolling through your thoughts at 2 AM, trying to make sense of everything you’ve lost, loved, and outgrown? That’s the space Remnants lives in—those quiet, aching, deeply human corners of our lives. It doesn’t shout for your attention. It gently walks in, sits beside you, and says, “Me too.”

Aarti Upadhyay’s Remnants isn’t just a collection of poems—it’s an experience. This book is her poetic debut, and yet, it carries the depth and emotional maturity of someone who has lived through every word she pens. There’s an honesty in her voice that doesn’t try to impress; it just is—raw, unfiltered, and deeply relatable.

At its core, Remnants is a poetic chronicle of grief and healing. But calling it just that would be an injustice. It’s about what remains after life breaks us open—the pieces we hold onto, the ones we’re forced to let go of, and the parts we rebuild, slowly, gently, with trembling hands and cautious hope.

There’s no chronological plot here—this is poetry, after all—but what binds these verses together is the emotional journey. Whether it’s the echo of a love lost, the hollow silence after a goodbye, or the flicker of hope that peeks through a tear-stained page, each poem contributes to a larger mosaic of becoming.

Reading Aarti’s poetry feels like reading someone’s diary—except it’s not awkward or intrusive. It’s brave. Her writing is refreshingly free of literary pretense. There’s no forced rhyme, no overworked metaphor. Instead, there’s rhythm in vulnerability and music in the silence between her words.

She writes like she’s speaking directly to you. There’s intimacy here, a softness even in the pain. And when she chooses to leave things unsaid, that silence is just as powerful.

One of the most beautiful aspects of Remnants is how it never tries to ‘fix’ grief. It lets it breathe. Aarti explores love—not just romantic, but familial, platonic, even self-love—through the lens of loss. She doesn’t offer tidy resolutions. Instead, she gives us space to sit with our own emotions.

The themes of self-discovery, survival, and resilience are intricately woven throughout. And somewhere between the lines, you start seeing your own story mirrored back at you.

There’s a deliberate lack of rigid structure here, which mirrors the very nature of grief—nonlinear, unpredictable, messy. The pacing is gentle; you can read it all in one sitting or return to it over days. Either way, it lingers with you.

I didn’t expect to cry, but I did. Not the loud, dramatic kind—more like tears that slip out quietly while reading a line that hits too close to home. This book has a way of wrapping itself around your memories, pulling out things you thought you’d buried.

Some lines stayed with me long after I’d put the book down. Others made me stop mid-sentence and just feel. And honestly, how often does that happen with poetry?

The real strength of Remnants lies in its sincerity. Aarti doesn’t try to be profound—she just is. There’s courage in her simplicity. The emotional clarity of her words, the way she balances heaviness with hope, and the consistent tone of compassion make this collection unforgettable.

If I had to nitpick, I’d say I wanted more. Not because anything felt incomplete, but because I wasn’t ready to let go. A few poems could have benefited from slightly more polish, but even their rawness feels intentional—like an unhealed wound you’re not supposed to cover up.

This book felt personal. Like someone else finally put into words the things I hadn’t been able to say. As someone who’s experienced both quiet heartbreak and loud grief, Remnants didn’t just resonate—it comforted. It reminded me that healing isn’t linear, and that sometimes, simply surviving is a form of grace.

Aarti Upadhyay’s Remnants is one of those rare poetry collections that doesn’t demand your attention—it earns it. With its unflinching honesty and quiet strength, it becomes a companion for anyone navigating grief, growth, or just the simple act of feeling deeply.

If you’ve ever loved, lost, or stood at the edge of your own becoming, this book is for you.

Have you ever read something that felt like it was written for you? What poetry collection has left a mark on your heart? Let me know—I’d love to hear your story.

#PoetryThatHeals #GriefAndGrowth #WordsThatStay #AartiUpadhyay #RemnantsPoetry