An ancient cot, a humble veshti, a perennial tree, a yellow bird and a cuckoo. This book is their quiet cradle - and, if you let it, yours. These poems composed over past three decades move between village dawns and city neon, between gurukulam corridors and glowing screens. They speak in a clean, listening voice - part Tamil root, part present-tense breath. Here, insight is not preached; it is noticed - in a child's question, a cracked wall, a sudden birdsong. If you have ever paused at such small flashing passes, you will find this cradle already waiting, gently open.
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