Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

A Mirage

The trees looked joyous, flaunting their naked splendor.

The sun was having some fun, playing peekaboo,

behind the branches, with leaves none.

That is unbecoming levity, did you say?

Do you believe that sun is making fun

of their impoverished state?  Is playing peekaboo wrong?

Playing all sorts of vile, vicious games is wrong.

But definitely not playing peekaboo.

I disagree with your topsy-turvy view. 

A little girl peeped from her glass window.

Lo! Her hair like a dash of gold on a lily.

The trees flailed their sinewy arms, heartily cheering,

proud of their brittle charms.

The girl waved to them, and the branches rustled a greeting,

happy at this serendipitous meeting.

Then, like a mirage, she was gone.   Had they been conned?

***

2. Songs before the Fall 

We will sing songs before the fall.

Before our limbs crumble, tumbling to the ground.

Humbled.

Let the sun play games with us.

Till we manage to create notes of our swan song.

Will you be enchanted by our song?

The song that we sing before the final call?

Till then, we stand tall, pure and pristine.

With no semblance of a leaf, yellow or green.

Or even adorning ourselves with a fig leaf.

But why come to grief? We are proud of what we are.

Proud of what we will become.

Stoically, we stand, waiting for the next stage,

thrumming a leafless song.

Come what may, we stay erect and strong,

not carping or complaining, but just humming along.

***

3. Reset Button

"Can someone click my reset button?

I want a makeover". A petite tree pleaded.

"With grace and lanky elegance, let me be bejeweled

Ah, how I miss my lithe superiority.

Let me once again bask in my leafy luminosity.

Can someone not lift me to a greater aesthetic shape?"

It beseeched, raising its skeletal arms. Higher. Higher.

”See, how the ground is bestrewn with fresh corpses

of leaves, sprigs, and twigs. Soon the sun will scud past

 jagged clouds-big and small, making way for the moon,

 which will cruise the night in her silver sheen."

 Said a mellow-looking tree.

“There are different stages, different ages.

Every age has its own charm, don’t you see? Why be enraged?

Soon, a boisterous breeze removed the crease from the tree’s face.

It was now a picture of choreographic grace.

---

Setu, May 2025