Poetry: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

Ramblings of an insomniac

I toss and turn in bed and see intertwined ferns. 

Is someone bounding after me? Rushing after me?

 Hush, hear the scurrying? Someone hurrying?

 Is it a thrush singing?

Am I bowed down under my idiosyncrasies? 

My eccentricities? My personal absurdities?

Guilty of singing nocturnal, insane ditties? 

I glimpse untrodden distances, feeling no urge to walk. 

Just love to talk- talk and talk! 

Have I changed into an ailing snail with no pesky limbs, 

and can be killed with a pinch of salt? 

The only thing constant is change. Is change my fault? 

Nothing is wrong with me, but with those wanting to kill me with salt. 

On my mental screen, 

I see a panoramic snowy range emerging. 

Slowly …rhythmically in the sunlight.

I see a stream running through a craggy ravine. 

I see a snow- sheathed sycamore, 

and a snowman clad in my dad’s gloves. 

It is then that I feel salt on my lips. 

But I am no slothful snail now, 

only a sensitive human with salt on my lips 

and tears in my eyes.     

***

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Setu, December 2024