Mirza Ghalib once asked: Where there is no autumn, how can spring exist? In poetry we do need both; a reckless political Bukowski and poised Pushpita - in the same breadth. While deemed as a late modernist, I don’t have any difficulty with Pushpita’s poems because at Skylark, for decades, I have been able to publish excellent international poetry in translation with the illustrious names including Borges, Neruda, Shiv Kumar Batalvi, Amrita Pritam and many more, offering a miscellany of poetry. I believe Pushpita’s poems have their own seat with their work.

In Pushpita, one finds the unadulterated poetry there can be. In her, there are no clutters of our daily afflictions, nor the array of imagery of symbols, historical or otherwise. They are all distilled out. This focused gaming
allows her to capture her voice with the untainted absolute beauty analogous to the impressionist paintings. To some, her poems may seem cloistered, renouncing the daily realities. Of course, the impression is of Chhayavad akin to the English Romantics or Tagore. In fact, her poems belong to what we know as Samkaleen Kavita, which embraces wide gamut of shades and colours of literary practices trying to liberate poetry from a medley of movements. Pushpita’s poems are thus at an atypical end of the spectrum, totally cleansed. Desperate to repeat JFK’s point; power corrupts, poetry cleanses.

Pushpita’s poems are not of the Sufi nature. Nor are they about Nirvana or Moksha. Yet, they are about absolute diffusion and dispersion into elevated exuberance. They have no claims or advice either. The theme is
of love; often, about its discovery in our ambience. The poems start with some love affair played out by the nature - often rivers, sun, moon, ocean and sky - where the poet is in unison. The poems end up collapsing in
her very personal cosmos, exhausted and dissipated as love. As in this poem entitled Spirit:
I settle
my unwavering gaze
on the moon of love
so the spirit of moonlight
may manifest
like love

Almost all her poems end up declaring the aspiration to create –in her own words- the everlasting pure
language of love.

Pushpita handles sensuality with restrain, as found in her poem Magic of the Body:
in the first thrill of love
the wakeful eye within
knew
the magic of the body
Also, in the poem Synonym of Love:
The river
Knows
the comfort of the moon
Through the night
the moon explores her
from bosom to womb

Pushpita says in one of her poems:
In love
one lives
all seasons together
Thus her poems celebrate the immediacy of love timelessly at once.

Love is not a static object. It is a unique communication. In her extremely short poem Space, Pushpita tells us how love plays out and unwraps our being:
Love opens
the heart
layer by layer
and creates
space

They say love is blind, and certainly the meaning here is the same. Love makes you drop all your guards, opensup your heart to make it naked, and with all its essence charges the subject to submission, as a result, only the
empty shell remains. This leaves whole being in a condition to accept someone’s love without anypreconditions. Poem ends in that anticipation. Pushpita describes her work as.

Such accomplished craftsmanship shown here as a poet, Pushpita deserves the accolade which is being bestowed on her today at the House of Lords. One can go on, but to conclude, I hope you all will join Pushpita when she pens in her poem, I Chose You, these words:
To write together that
short and sweet word
Love
Again in your words Pushpita, I hope I have been able ‘to place in your palm/the melting warmth of love.’