Madan Kashyap

The rasa that arrives after the others have spoken. Not emptiness but settlement, the water clear because it has stopped being stirred, wanting nothing further from the hour.

10 compositions

The rasa of grief kept in good order. Not wailing, the quieter labour after: setting the cup back on its shelf, folding what will not be worn again, learning the exact weight of a name.

8 compositions

The rasa of nearness and its long shadow. Not only the meeting, also the waiting that precedes it, the doorway watched all evening, the way a room rearranges itself around one absent person.

3 compositions

The rasa of the refusal that will not soften. Fury here has grammar and aim, the wound that learned to speak, the injustice that declines to be reasonable about itself.

3 compositions

The rasa of the tilted glance. Comedy here is not decoration but diagnosis, the poet lets the world overhear itself, and the pretension collapses of its own weight.

1 composition