Santosh Bakaya: Poetry (Life, Cognition and Creativity)

Santosh Bakaya
The throbbing and pulsating world 

Incarcerated humanity, relentlessly washes hands,
 hoping for better days, masked, and sanitized.
 Meanwhile, the December sun dazzles the world, 
painting it in new hues of hope, unadulterated.
There is pollution everywhere, 
but a flower smiles bravely and a sun-kissed creeper 
infuses a new vigour in the surroundings, 
rustling and silently singing songs of hope. 

This parallel world throbs and pulsates 
with an excitement great 
and the fragrance of untrammeled freedom, 
while we, the caged, we, the manacled 
caught in our ill-gotten arrogance, alas,
 cannot tackle our shackled selves. 
   
A grasshopper hops from stem to stem, 
a chaffinch flies from branch to branch, 
carrying a twig in its beak- 
a twig which encapsulates infinite possibilities. 
Endless hope of new beginnings, 
infusing a new life into exhausted hearts, 
new hope in hands tired from washing – relentlessly washing.
 
I look wistfully at the cobalt blue vase on the mantelpiece.
Lo and behold, the east outside has turned gold, 
a sudden fragrance seems to erupt from the empty vase, 
making me emit a cheerful, sanguine chuckle. 
I resolve not to buckle down under the pernicious times. 
I bet, good times are just around the corner. Why fret? 
***


The mist- mantled miasma 

I sit on a bench in the park, 
eyes refusing to leave the wall fronting me, 
bulging and sagging with the damp of myriad winters- 
moss-covered, and aging.
 
The sun does not crinkle its nose at it, 
but its rays swathe it in a loving warmth 
 and the dragonfly sunbathes, perched blissfully on it,  
 unfazed by its crumbling and decrepit look.
 A tendril of grass peeps through its intricate map
 of cracks and fissures.
The wall is drenched in a rare resplendence, 
and basks in this makeover. 
I watch transfixed. 
***


A brown Study 

The sun peeps through two gigantic concrete structures, 
a scowl marring its golden countenance. 
It looks down going into a brown study 
as a masked man, suited and booted 
 unmasks his true intentions 
kicking a skeletal dog who limps away, whimpering.
 
The sun frowns some more, gritting his gold-plated teeth 
hiding his wrath behind a cloud. 
The dog scurries away 
towards a skeletal, sooted, and bootless boy, 
munching on a piece of stale bread. 
Crunch- crunch-crunch goes the stale bread 
under the bedraggled boy’s teeth.
The human chunk looks at the canine chunk in pure delight, 
hugging the canine, eyes bright, 
putting a morsel of bread into its mouth. 
Now the dog’s teeth go crunch crunch, crunch, 
on the piece of bread. 
 It wags its tail, finding nothing stale in the bread
 and gratefully licks and licks the human chunk.   
  
The sun peeps from behind the cloud cover 
shooting one golden ray towards a grasshopper, 
who happily suns itself in the furrowed grass, 
becoming a green treasure – tinted with gold. 
***

 
Carton 

The quilted carton looked quite tempting
 to the forlorn, shivering kitten 
who inspected it from all sides, 
sniffing and licking, trying to climb
 into its snug cardboard walls, but failing. 
A little distance away, stood a cow chewing the cud, 
watching the masked world go by with a bovine detachment. 
 
From somewhere appeared a mother of five pups, 
who snoozed in the warmth of the early morning sun. 
With a loving reassurance, she licked and then picked
 up the kitten, daintily placing it in the quilted carton
 which some Good Samaritan had placed for the strays.
  
I gaped at this heartwarming scene, 
simple feelings churning in my heart, 
rising above the babel of selfish voices, 
too complex for any reductive label. 
***


The oily sheen 

The oily sheen of the labourer woman's hair 
glowed in the golden amiability of a new morn.
She patted her hair a little self-consciously 
as her husband looked lovingly in her direction 
as she ladled out watered-down daal onto his rice plate
 who slurped it with a glutton’s gusto, 
making a circle with his index finger and thumb
 and complimenting her for her culinary skills.
There was a long day ahead for them, 
and sustenance was needed, 
so what if it was watered down daal during breakfast time? 
Another labourer bathed under a community tap, 
singing some variant of a rap song.
 
As I munched on my cheese toast, 
sipping green tea gingerly, 
my eyes fixed on the tin-sheds 
dotted with excrement from pigeons, 
and a ginger cat walking on one of the sheds 
with incredible feline grace, 
a sublime smell wafted 
above the septic, sour stink of stagnant water, 
of poverty and degradation. 
It was the smell of love. Of bliss. 
Of contentment. 

I guiltily removed the frown 
which seemed to have become a perennial part of me lately 
and smiled, taking a leaf from these impoverished folks, 
singing songs of hope, unfazed by dearth. 
The earth smiled too, 
or was it reflecting the oily sheen of the poor woman’s hair?
***

1 comment :

  1. Just loved your poems dear Santosh...each a song of hope and positivity! Kudos and respects, my friend!

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