Bhatt's own hand is equally gifted. It moves through the tossing seas of language with the energy of an eel. Although a graduate of the writer's workshop in Iowa, few concessions are made to poetic technique. Sometimes, therefore, the lines appear flaccid, or nestle too closely within the coral-reefs of expatriate exotica. But even at her cutest, Bhatt is never silly.
"I shall be among the English poets after my death," wrote John Keats at 23. Bhatt's poetry displays a similar assurance—an unquestionable faith in, and mastery over her "mother's way of wearing a sari".