Book of the Week – Scattered Leaves by Kanchan Chatterjee

Like autumn’s hush through bamboo groves, Scattered Leaves drifts gently, yet lingers with quiet force. Kanchan Chatterjee’s haiku are moments suspended between breaths, glances exchanged between the moon and a wanderer on a rain-slicked road. These poems do not demand attention; they beckon, they murmur. His world is one of bullock carts and temple bells, of technology slipping into tradition like mist into morning.

Below are selected poems and comments and please contribute your comments also:

power cut…
a firefly settles
on my phone

Darkness hums, both literal and metaphorical. The irony is delicate, but so is the invitation: to look beyond artificial luminescence, beyond the fleeting conveniences of power grids and screens. What remains when electricity vanishes? Fireflies, stars, and a quiet that does not ask for permission.

Diwali…
among the wine bottles
a laughing Buddha

Chatterjee’s juxtaposition is sharp, mischievous. Amidst revelry, where laughter spills like wine, a silent Buddha remains—a witness, an enigma. The haiku brims with contrast: indulgence and introspection, excess and enlightenment. The Buddha does not judge; he only laughs. 

departing moon…
the muezzin’s
first call

This haiku is a breath between transitions—between night and dawn, silence and devotion. The moon lingers at the edges of sight, unwilling to leave, as the first prayer threads through the cool air. The celestial and the human merge seamlessly, time measured not by clocks, but by whispers of light and faith.

after dad’s chemo…
we talk of survival rate
monsoon drizzle

Here, the weight of uncertainty meets nature’s quiet relentlessness. The monsoon does not hesitate; it falls, it soaks, it persists. So too does the conversation, brittle and inevitable. No metaphors are forced—only truth, distilled into its purest form. A trembling moment, held in the palm of a single haiku.

Conclusion

Kanchan Chatterjee’s Scattered Leaves is a collection that breathes. It does not rely on ornamentation or sentimentality; it trusts the moment to speak for itself. For those who listen to the hush of falling leaves, who trace the moon’s arc across still water, who hear poetry in the rustle of a paper boat—this book is for you.

—-