Songs of Vitasta, I Sing, a moving collection of poems by Prof. (Dr.) Chandra Kanta Kantroo—an eminent academician, scholar and columnist. A native of Sopore, Kashmir, now settled in Haryana, she holds a Ph.D in American Literature and taught English Language and Literature for over thirty-five years.
I came to know Dr. Kantroo through the Sharada Newsletter, the prestigious publication of the Kashmiri Hindu Sabha, Pune, where she serves as Chief Editor. Padma Shri Dr. K. N. Pandita had earlier introduced me to her literary work. The collection was released jointly by Dr. Pandita and Prof. (Dr.) Raghuvendra Tanwar, Director of the Indian Council of Historical Research.
Published about a year ago, Songs of Vitasta, I Sing recently came into my hands. Reading it was a deeply moving experience. These poems resonate not merely through the physical landscape of Kashmir but through the deeper landscapes of memory, culture and identity.
The collection is steeped in nostalgia, yet its nostalgia is never loud or sentimental. It is a quiet ache beneath every poem. Memory arrives gently—a line suddenly transports the reader to the Wullar, seen once from the gable of one’s ancestral home; a home where one was born, grew up, belonged, and then, one tragic night, lost forever.
Some books belong to their time; others remain companions for life. Songs of Vitasta, I Sing belongs to the latter. From the very first page, one feels as though sitting beside someone on a quiet evening. Outside, silence reigns; inside, conversation flows. Having lived away from home for decades, the poet has learnt to speak to mountains, rivers, birds, mirrors, kettles and clouds—not as objects of nature, but as companions in exile.
Two currents flow through the collection. One is the soul’s inward search, undertaken in silence and solitude; the other is an abiding longing for Kashmir—for the Wullar, the Chinar and the mountains whose hearts “beat slow.” These are no longer merely elements of landscape; they have become repositories of memory and identity. Linking both currents is the eternal flow of the Vitasta—our beloved Vyeth,which, true to the Kashmiri saying Vyeth Rooz Pakaan, never ceases to flow.
The poems arise where the inner self meets the outer landscape. They spring from an intense desire to understand the “alter ego”, the silent second self each of us carries within. Reading them is like moving through a mist-laden valley where lakes, mountains and skies become metaphors for self-discovery.In one poem the poet calls her verses “dry tears”. Yet these poems are much more. They explore the self, the mystery of consciousness and the moral world we inhabit. Everywhere the poet searches for her own centre.
In the poem To My Mirror, she discovers not certainty but courage:
In your eyes I see no answers
but the courage to be,
to grow,
to become…
The poetry begins not with proclamation but with listening. It is a prelude to the search of the soul:
I search my soul
in the quiet of night
sift through lies,
old and new…
the stories lived
and the ones unlived.
This, to me, is where the entire collection begins—not with answers but with the patient act of sifting truth from illusion. The phrase “the stories lived and the ones un-lived” is especially moving. Most poetry remembers what has happened; these poems also mourn what never happened—the conversations never held, the mornings never spent beside the Wullar, the autumns never witnessed beneath the Chinars. The soul preserves both memory and possibility. The search is difficult, but never melodramatic. In the poem The Night I Died, death becomes a metaphor for release rather than extinction:
I recall my death
neither with fear
nor with pain…
I soared
into an eternal day.
This is not physical death but the breaking of invisible chains. After years of waiting and carrying burdens, the soul is finally free. The closing image—“I soared into an eternal day”—is one of extraordinary serenity. What the poet carries forward is neither bitterness nor regret, but love:
I carried their love
as sacred grace.
In an age that encourages grievance, this affirmation of love as “sacred grace” is perhaps one of the finest moments in the collection. It reveals the spiritual temper that quietly sustains the entire book.
If the soul is being searched, what is it made of? The answer comes from the most unexpected place, the kitchen. In Kettle Speaks to Pot, two ordinary utensils become enduring metaphors. On the surface, they share the same fire; at a deeper level, they evoke the Shaivite vision of the body and consciousness journeying together through life.
You and I,
we share the same flame,
the same searing heat;
we labour together,
serve together,
holding the boiling storms.
The poem is not overtly feminist, though it draws naturally from the domestic world. The kettle and the pot become companions in endurance. Neither claims superiority; both bear the same heat, just as body and soul, Shiva and Shakti, are inseparable in experience. The kettle speaks with quiet wisdom:
My scars are the marks of use,
of resilience,
of enduring the relentless fire.
Your gleam will fade too,
and when it does,
you’ll find we are not so different.
Here nostalgia ripens into philosophy. The scars are not signs of decay but of a life fully lived. The relentless fire is life itself, refining rather than consuming. The search, then, is not for a flawless soul but for one tempered by experience and awakened to consciousness.
If some poems of the collection turn inward, the some others open outward. The inner search naturally leads the poet back to the source, the rivers, the mountains and the Chinars. Here the landscape is not merely remembered; it becomes an extension of the self. At the heart of this landscape flows the Vitasta, not as background but as a living presence.
Far whispers of life are back,
a dim glimmer of hope and sunshine,
rough waves turning placid…
Hope enters quietly, like a whisper. Grief gradually yields to calm, while the “cosmic flute” suggests that the river participates in a larger harmony. The mysteries of suffering slowly dissolve into clarity, just as flowing water smooths rough stones. In the poem Vyeth Rooz Pakaan, the ancient Kashmiri refrain becomes both metaphor and promise.
Right in front,
the boat so close,
another dawn,
another day,
another year,
one more boat ride,
one more pilgrimage,
one more dread,
one more chance…
Vyeth Rooz Pakaan.
The rhythm captures both the weariness and resilience of exile. Every day brings fresh uncertainty, yet the refrain restores faith: the Vitasta flows on. As long as the river flows, hope survives. This longing is not merely for a geographical Kashmir, but for a way of living—for watching the Wullar at dusk, for autumn beneath the Chinars, for the simple privilege of sitting quietly and allowing nature to speak. That longing finds its finest expression in Speaking to Mountains.
O mountains, steadfast and wise,
your snowy crowns shine soft and bright,
nurturing dreams in luminous light.
The mountains are addressed not as silent rocks but as ancient elders. They guard memory, preserve wisdom and nurture dreams. The poet continues:
Dear mountains, you speak to the blue;
in waters mirror your wisdom too.
In your silence, I find my way.
The dialogue is profound. Mountains speak to the sky, the sky reflects itself in water, and through this silent communion the human spirit discovers its path. The poet seeks no dramatic revelation; silence itself becomes illumination.Perhaps the most memorable image in the poem is also the simplest:O mountains, your heart beats slow…
Exile teaches a hurried rhythm of life, but the mountains remind us of another measure of time—one shaped by patience, contemplation and endurance. To “sit and ponder, dream and gaze” is not escape; it is a return to the self.
Here the two currents of the collection finally converge. The inward search draws its strength from the outward landscape, while the mountains, the river and the Chinars become reflections of an awakened consciousness. In Prof. Kantroo’s poetry, the journey of the soul and the homeward journey are one and the same.
The dialogue with nature does not end with rivers and mountains. The poet also speaks to a money plant in her room, addressing it as her “silent companion”. What appears to be a simple domestic image becomes another metaphor for exile.
In a quiet corner
you grow,
your stretching tendrils
reach for the light…
my silent companion,
your leaves glisten,
and veins weave
a map of endurance.
This is a layered poem. Inwardly, it reflects the soul’s instinct to seek its source; outwardly, it mirrors the loneliness of displacement. In her native land, the poet would perhaps have spoken to a majestic Chinar. In exile, she finds companionship in a modest money plant. The image quietly conveys the emotional consequences of a historical catastrophe.
The language of Songs of Vitasta, I Sing is deceptively simple. There is no striving after complexity. Instead, ordinary objects acquire extraordinary resonance: a kettle speaks with dignity, a river plays a “cosmic flute,” mountains possess hearts that “beat slow.” The familiar is gently transformed into the luminous.
Equally significant is the poet’s effortless movement between English and Kashmiri. Expressions such as Vyeth Rooz Pakaan are left untranslated, preserving their cultural depth. The poems inhabit two languages with equal ease, just as they inhabit two worlds—the homeland and the place of exile. This fusion is especially moving in Kruhoon Sheen (Black Snow), where the poet’s grief extends beyond the loss of a home to the erosion of an entire cultural landscape. The Wullar is physically distant, yet spiritually nearer. The fog that envelops it is more than weather; it is the haze of separation and loss. The lake becomes a silent witness to a fractured history and a civilisation struggling to preserve its memory.
From the gables and windows
of my home
I still visualise
the misty Wullar…
once the heart-throb of the town,
now a mute witness
to the history,
the dying relics
of a comatose culture.
Yet the prevailing tone of the collection is not anger. It is one of quiet endurance. Even in poems of suffering, there is remarkable emotional restraint. The poet grieves without bitterness and remembers without rancour.
For readers from Kashmir, these poems will read like letters from home. For others, they offer an intimate understanding of what “home” means when it exists more vividly in memory than in geography. The nostalgia here is not escapism; it is an act of cultural remembrance and spiritual continuity.
The title poem, Speaking to Mountains, beautifully gathers these strands together. When the poet addresses the mountains, she is not merely describing nature. She is conversing with the eternal—with those silent guardians that have watched generations pass and have preserved the memory of a civilisation. Their silence becomes wisdom; their steadfastness, a source of strength.
The spiritual undercurrent of the collection also recalls the tradition of Kashmir Shaivism. The sacred mountains, the flowing Vitasta, the dialogue between body and consciousness, and the search for the inner self all resonate with that philosophical inheritance. One is reminded of the sacred Mahadev hills and the revelation of the Shiva Sutras to Acharya Vasugupta, where the outer landscape becomes inseparable from inner awakening.
The closing refrain of Vyeth Rooz Pakaan offers the final message of the collection. The river continues to flow despite history, exile and loss. So too does hope. The longing for home may never cease, yet memory itself becomes a homeland. As Lal Ded reminds us, “Asi aas, te asi aasav”—We were, we are, and we shall remain.
That, perhaps, is the enduring achievement of Songs of Vitasta, I Sing. It transforms personal memory into collective remembrance, and nostalgia into quiet grace. It is not merely a collection of poems; it is a testament to endurance, faith and the undying spirit of Kashmir.
The writer is a national and State awardee writer and Broadcaster. He can be reached at -bnbetab@yahoo.co.in.
ABOUT THE REVIEWER
Brij Nath Betab is a renowned Kashmiri poet, writer, and former broadcaster
