Showing posts with label Santosh Bakaya. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Santosh Bakaya. Show all posts

The Red Woman by Laksmisree Banerjee

The Red Woman

Laksmisree Banerjee
Black Eagle Books [Dublin. USA. India]
PP 108
, Year 2025

ISBN 978- 1- 64560- 637- 6
PRICE ₹ 280

---Reviewed by Santosh Bakaya

There is no denying the fact that Laksmisree Banerjee is an important literary voice in the present literary scene. I have read many of her books and have found the impassioned intensity of her writing almost palpable, impacting the reader powerfully.

In the pages of this new book, The Red Woman, published by Black Eagle Books, [Dublin, the USA, India], Patriarchy, with all its cruel claws, is in the dock!

Laksmisree Banerjee
 In her foreword, Bashabi Fraser says that the ‘vigilant third eye’ is forever awake in Laksmisree’s poetry, as she walks with the prostitute, remembers the child widow, the smothered silence, the shunned, isolated or lonely woman…”

Her poems cannot be stifled, but will bring hope to the hopeless, revitalizing and resurrecting the women languishing in the margins of society. 

With remarkable panache, Laksmisree has woven together myriad female experiences in a Male-dominated society, symbolized by the powerful Red Woman, embodying pain, defiance, and the searing fire of rebellion.  As she says in her interview with Rachna Singh, [Editor, The Wise Owl magazine], she has presented and poeticized 'The Red Woman in all her entirety."    

She has a voice that excels at singing dulcet songs, but here her poetic voice reaches a crescendo of indignation at the centennial patriarchal mindset.

Santosh Bakaya

 With an edifying eloquence, she expresses empathy with the marginalized, the downtrodden, the silent sufferers, the child brides, the young widows, the victims of prejudice, and the invisibles. And, also, the new bride,' in closeted freedom of female glory', all dressed up in heavy finery, waiting for the doors to open, 
' lattices removed,
for guests to enter, inspect, and laud
the newest toy in her in-laws' home."   

Dedicated "to all such Abhayas, Nirbhayas, and fearless women of the world, brutally treated  daily, killed and raped by the ageless guillotine of patriarchy", the book, in its 108 pages, attacks the sinister minds responsible for the' female body and soul strewn in gory shards.'

" lacerated womanhood, the searing agony of a manacled womanhood,"

In the Author's Note, she says that, “the predominance of the Red Colour, its efficacy and usage is interwoven in my poetic fabric."
 ”Fire and the colour red are powerful symbols that burn in her poems and remain intensely personal, while also connecting with the reader because of the universality and the immediacy of the issues raised,"  
says Debjani Chatterjee in her blurb. 

The longest poem in the book is The Red Woman, pp 1- 5 - the woman who is lost in the meandering paths of Songachi. 

She exclaims,  

"You are the whore,
 not I 
 You have sold your soul
 not I 
You have revelled in perfidy
 not I 

You have traded in lust 

not I”. 

 The back page blurbs speak highly of her poetic talent. 
Candice Louisa Daquin, [USA], calls the book 'a potent tour de force through womanhood, culminating in a meticulous, polemic rebellion.

K. Satchidanandan says that she has consistently pursued the "painful secrets of the human condition."

 The poem Timeless Sin p 30, hits hard at the regressive ritual of locking up a woman for her crime of bleeding for 'four days a month'.

"My grandmother 

 was chained in darkness in the cowshed,
Barred from sunlight four days a month
It was a crime for her to bleed
 Like it was for her to be a girl-"

After coming out, she would be purified with cow dung and chilly Ganga water
"Strangling her every month 

with pneumonia."

Unborn Kill, p 39 is another hard-hitting poem on female infanticide.
"I felt my throbs
deep within
 the frothy warmth of
 my mother's insides...

 I was she
a teardrop on the serrated edge

 of being,
a dew on her hidden, clement leaf,
soon to be sucked out by
the boiling seas, the hot winds
 of prejudice.”   

In 'Renaissance after her Martyrdom', p 107

"No way will this upheaval ever stop
till a new awakened, sun rises in tearful blossom..." 

No longer can we afford to remain complacent or indifferent; we need to raise our collective voices against these atrocities, against bruised womanhood, against all societal stereotypes,


'Till fists are ready to combat subjugation
...

patriarchy asphyxiated with blasts of justice:

In an interview with Rachna Singh, the editor of The Wise Owl magazine, Laksmisree Banerjee   says that the book accentuates 

'' the multifacetedness of women's experiences throughout the world."   
She emphasizes that the "resonant image of this book would be a blood-smeared woman with an unfurled flag in one hand and a tight fist in the other, proclaiming a crying rebellion for a better world of equality and humanity."

This collection throws ample light on the brutal fact that women continue to battle the evils of patriarchy, excruciating humiliation, and isolation.
Some, like Maya Angelou's caged bird, alas, have forgotten to sing.   
Like Laksmisree, I am also robustly convinced of the power of poetry to bring about positive change. And this, I am sure, is one such book which will take society by the scruff of its collar, and shake it out of its complacency.
Let me add an important point here.   
Despite the bludgeoning and battering of women in a toxic patriarchal society, Laxmisree reiterates that we continue to witness the grit and gumption of such women to rise above the trials and tribulations of life, and We Rise with Her.P 107

"No, we cannot stop till the seeds flower again
till the verdure of love sprouts in redressal 

Till the womb stops bleeding in such a demoniac carnage
..............................
We now await appeasement of a new daybreak."

 Two chilling poems, Fire of a New Woman, PP 25, and SCARS: Burnt Woman, based on a real-life, personal Fire Tragedy, sent chills up my spine:
In the concluding lines, of Fire of a new Woman, I could read the message of resilience and fortitude. Out of the ashes of the fire, a new Woman was born.

   “You found your new sangfroid
I found the darkness of fire 
the light of knowledge."

In [SCARS: Burnt Woman pp 23 -24] Despite ‘ice cold abandonment…”
 “my tears hardened

Into granite chips…and the darkness of fire
taught her ‘the lessons of love and life’.

Bravo for writing such an important book- A book which deserves a permanent place in the book shelves of all university and college libraries.


Special Section: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya
The Girl on the Beach
 
Slowly, and with tender care,
I peel off the palimpsest of time.
Figures and silhouettes creep out,
looking around. Apprehensive.
Doubtful.

What do I see? A girl standing all alone.
She looks uncannily familiar.
Is that me on the sandy beach,
trying to reach out for those juvenile dreams
rippling in those tiny eyes? The waves also ripple.
They roar. Then there is silence.

But this silence speaks volumes.
Are the gulls speaking?  Squawking?
Loud, piercing keows- cow- cow – cow.

There is a starfish and shells.
That rings a bell:
“She sells seashells by the seashore.”
The tongue-twister rolls on my tongue,
and I recall bursting my lungs, spilling it out.

Is she contemplating mirages on the horizon,
eyes now fixed on a shaft of sunlight
making its debut on the blue immensity?
But the blue has been sabotaged by clouds.
Maybe she is hunting for those silver linings
every cloud is said to have?

Inadvertently, I raise my hands skywards:
“May those silver linings follow the little girl everywhere.”
I mumble.
The hidden birds go into a frenzy of cheerful chirping.
I sing too, and can almost see the shells moving in ecstasy.

Monsoon Magic Mesmerizes: Keoladeo National Park

Santosh Bakaya
This bird-watching paradise, also called the Keoladeo National Park, Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary, Rajasthan, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, popular for its biodiversity; its wetlands are a refuge for hundreds of migratory birds. Spread over 29 sq. km, it is home to over 375 bird species 
[or, maybe more] and other wildlife. Nature enthusiasts and ornithologists from all over the world flock excitedly to this eco-haven, hoping to catch a glimpse of some rare birds. 

There was a time, many years ago, when the Siberian Cranes attracted tourists from all over the world. However, their numbers gradually dwindled, and ultimately, they vanished altogether. 
Since the year 2002, no Siberian crane has been sighted there. This is due to poaching and degradation of the wetlands along the routes of their migration. 

The monsoons paint the Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary in beautiful hues, and it glistens anew, surrounded by verdant greenery.  This season is also the time for resident birds to breed here, and also a fruitful time for birdwatchers. They can see Sarus cranes and painted storks in abundance, in this wetland, which now resembles a vibrant, multi- hued painting. Mesmerizingly magical!
Fledglings peek out of nests, fascinated by the wet, pulsating world, unspooling around them.
They feel the splash- splash- splash of agile fish, the bounce of butterflies, the rumble of thunder clouds, and the sun peeping from behind dark clouds, cranes balancing themselves on thin branches, and think: 
 What a beautiful world to be born into!

 The fragile fledglings, 
the dark clouds with silver linings; 
nests alive to the sound of music-
 of hungry mouths.

Koels and cuckoos, in fours and twos
create a spell- binding melody
 with their endearing coos, 
watched by a solitary Graylag Goose.

 The leafy boughs yawn luxuriantly, 
shake themselves free of the patina of dust, 
to shine with a new ardour. 
Trust the mother birds to try harder 
Harder- harder – harder 
to replenish the larder. 

 Birds in threes and sixes and pairs 
create a tumult in the cloudy air. 
What can one do but stand and stare?
 
Ears glued to the high decibel squawks 
of hungry chicks and click a painted stork 
in the golden rays of the westering sun?
A slothful heron in a languorous flight.
 What fun! What delight!  

  The invisible gardener with the green fingers 
lingers near saplings, ecstatically bursting forth
from mounds of earth. 
On a slippery mound, sits a robin, 
its tiny head bobbin’ up and down, 
up and down; recalling its friend 
the Glossy Ibis. 

He will come in winter again. 
But he does so miss the Glossy Ibis! 
To ride on his back was sheer bliss!










Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

This building is no enchanter


The building is no enchanter
But I will wait
I will wait with bated breath
I will wait for Godot
Like those two men.
Leaning against this building,
which is no enchanter.

Waiting for Godot
Is a good pastime.
Am I indulging in nonsensical banter
My thoughts running away at a canter?
Standing against this building
which is no enchanter.

Am I a fool indulging in absurd monologues?
Has the staff defrauded the bank?
Have they siphoned  off the funds?
Have the rogues run away with the money? What if they have?
Is it cool to bank on an untrustworthy bank?
Hush, I hear the jingle of keys coming towards this building,
which is no enchanter.

Ah, there come two men with baggage and rope. Is there any scope for clinging to hope? Or should I stand here, moping,
unable to cope with the overhanging uncertainty?
Why do I keep seeing these images?
Images of the crackle of incinerating hope
hissing,
raging,
spluttering?


Oh, perish the thought!
Not for me the bugbear of negativities.
Positive Imaging is what I believe in.
Let me fix my mind
on that AI generated toddler that captivated me the other day, singing zoobie zoobie
And wait
with the sweetness of expectation.

Yes
Let me await
the opening of the
Gate …

Did I hear the creak of rusted hinges?
Or just the hiss of hope as it singes?

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya
Weird, Whimsical Wilderness 

Who is the gun-  wielding woman?
Is she a witch?  A demon? A ghoul?
Or some extra - terrestrial being?
What fun does she derive from toting a gun? Are the twosome  trying to morph into each other’ s identities, ignoring the melodic avian ditties in the wilderness?
Are they following their weird fancies and whims?
They are definitely not catering to each other’s finer sensibilities. Maybe meting out shock treatment?

The picture reeks of violence.
There is a gun and an axe.
What sense does it make?
On whom has the axe fallen?
What does the body language of the man say? Is the woman his bodyguard?

Ah, it is a scene being shot - a film scene? They are merely playing their parts!
Anyway, all of us are playing parts on life’s stage.

Can the umbrella save him from the rampant afflictions hurled by a crazy world?
Can the hat save her from chauvinistic onslaughts?

The tangle of trees surrounding them seem to ask. The two continue to bask in their own lustre!

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya
Inaudible Chronicles

What inaudible chronicles,
What untold stories speak to her from the glass?
Is her muse reflected in the window glass?
Is her muse talking to her in hushed whispers?
Is the thoughtful woman reflecting on her inner tranquility
or her inner turbulence? She sighs.

She seems to be caught in a haze. 
And hazes can paint surreal scenes.

It is weaving swathes and swathes of wonders.
Unleashing eternities of splendour.
Does she see a stranger in the glass?

Her reflection sparks the memory of Rosa Parks.
She smiles at the thought.
No way can she be as phenomenal
as the spunky woman
 who triggered the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

But the thought fills her with a happy glow.
She hears a melody! Ah, such an elegant melody.
She slowly slips into a soothing quietude
 amidst the chaos of the teeming multitude.

The bus stops.
She shrugs off the existential sorrows. 
Lost in promising tomorrows,
she hops out of the bus, finally home.

The Misted Horizon: A Critical Reflection on A Sky Full of Balloons by Santosh Bakaya

Reviewed by - Ritu Kamra Kumar


Book: A Skyful of Balloons (A Novella)
Author: Santosh Bakaya
Authorspress Publication
Year of Publication: 2018
Pages: 147 
Price: ₹295| $15
ISBN-13:978-93-87651-49-4

Santosh Bakaya, a luminous presence in contemporary Indian literature, is a poet, columnist, and storyteller whose prose transcends boundaries and resonates with universal human emotions. A recipient of numerous literary accolades, Bakaya has carved a niche among India's literary stalwarts, giving voice to the silences of many unheard lives. Her novella A Sky Full of Balloons is a delicate yet powerful tapestry of love, loss, memory, and hope—a narrative that both shimmers with poetic grace and pierces the heart with raw truth.

At its core, the novella chronicles the emotional odyssey of Preeti, a young woman whose life—once resplendent with color and melody—gradually fades into the muted hues of melancholy. The narrative opens with a scene steeped in symbolic imagery: a "pale and muted sky," white mist, and walnut trees whose music fails to stir Preeti’s heart. This spectral landscape mirrors her inner desolation, a world once vibrant now veiled by an impenetrable mist. The opening tone establishes a quiet eeriness, reminiscent of Virginia Woolf’s psychological landscapes, where nature and emotion seamlessly intertwine.

Preeti, once a babbling brook under her professor father's tutelage, is now silenced by sorrow. Her youthful exuberance—her "Picasso in the making"—has slipped into oblivion. Bakaya uses natural elements not merely as backdrops but as living, breathing extensions of her characters’ inner worlds. The Lidder river, the peeping walnut trees, and the chirping birds act as silent companions, echoing Preeti’s joys and despair.

The love story between Preeti and Vivek (affectionately, Vicky) unfolds with lyrical tenderness. Their childhood bond, nurtured amidst the scenic valleys and flowerbeds separating their homes, blossoms into a romance etched in Shakespearean eloquence. The references to literary giants—Shakespeare, Tennyson, Dickinson—are not ornamental but integral to the story’s emotional fabric. Their shared love for literature is the very soul of their relationship. As they quote “Parting is such sweet sorrow…” or evoke the eternal cadence of “Dover Beach,” their love becomes both timeless and tragic.

The characters surrounding them—the warm-hearted Dhars and Rainas, the wise grandmother, and the theatrical Dr. Qayoom—are not mere supporting figures but vividly drawn, each embodying a facet of the socio-cultural milieu. Bakaya’s genius lies in her deft psychological sketches—she captures the unspoken anxieties, quiet joys, and emotional tremors of everyday life with startling realism.

Just as the narrative settles into the comfort of their union, tragedy strikes. In a heart-wrenching moment, Preeti believes she has lost Vivek. Her anguish—marked by her desperate cry, “You cannot do this…”—shakes the reader. But Bakaya, ever the master of emotional pacing, delivers a twist: it was all a prank. Yet this moment of panic foreshadows the real loss to come, casting a shadow over their eventual marriage.

The narrative is divided into three distinct parts, each marking a shift in tone, structure, and emotional resonance. The third part delivers the final blow—Vivek is gone, and Preeti, now emotionally inert, lives in a "somnambulistic trance." Her creative soul is frozen in grief, her colors drained. But it is here that Bakaya introduces a symbolic resurrection: a young boy, also named Vicky, moves in next door. This child, motherless and seeking comfort, becomes the unlikely balm for Preeti’s wounded heart.
Their evolving bond is tenderly rendered. The cyclical nature of life—loss and renewal, winter and spring—unfurls through metaphors of seasons, lullabies, and memory straws. As the boy’s laughter echoes through her house, Preeti begins to thaw. Her lullaby “Nanni kali sonnay chali…” becomes a metaphorical bridge between her past and a new beginning.

In a climactic yet understated moment, Preeti visits young Vicky’s home on her wedding anniversary—a day once steeped in trauma—and asks for a book, The Twelve Months, a symbolic nod to the continuity of time and healing. Emily Dickinson’s haunting lines, “First chill – then stupor – then the letting go,” echo as she begins to reconcile with her loss.

The novella ends on an open note, allowing readers to linger in the liminal space between closure and continuation. Has Preeti truly found peace? Or is she still navigating the misted corridors of memory? Bakaya leaves us pondering, much like the ambiguous ending of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, inviting the reader to co-create the narrative's closure.

Narrative Technique & Style:
Bakaya’s storytelling is deeply poetic, her prose enriched with metaphors, similes, and literary allusions that elevate the emotional cadence. Her use of nature as metaphor—trees, rivers, mist, frost—is both symbolic and sensorial. The third-person omniscient narration allows for deep psychological insights while maintaining a lyrical distance. Her structure—episodic yet seamless—mimics the flow of memory, echoing the techniques of modernist writers like Woolf and Joyce.

Characterization:
Preeti is a deeply human character—flawed, fragile, yet fiercely resilient. Her transformation from a spirited girl to a grief-stricken woman and eventually a nurturer again is depicted with grace and empathy. Vivek, though absent in the final act, lingers like a fragrance, his presence etched into Preeti’s psyche. Secondary characters are crafted with care, their dialogues and gestures reflecting cultural authenticity and emotional truth.

Conclusion:
A Sky Full of Balloons is not just a story—it is an elegy, a love song, a whisper in the wind. It speaks of ephemeral joys, the permanence of grief, and the quiet promise of renewal. Santosh Bakaya's novella is a triumph of literary art—a work that invites readers to feel, reflect, and perhaps heal.
***

Bio: Dr. Ritu Kamra Kumar, Retd. Officiating Principal and Associate Professor of English at MLN College, Yamuna Nagar, is an acclaimed academician, poet, and writer. With over 400 contributions to leading national newspapers and magazines, she has published 70+ research papers in reputed national and international journals and edited books. A noted resource person and speaker, she has led workshops and panel discussions nationwide, including at the Delhi Book Fair 2024. Honored by the District Administration and featured as an Empowered Woman by The Hindustan Times, she is a recipient of the Indian Woman Achiever Award and authored eight acclaimed books. 

An Introspective Exploration of the Sublime and the Subtle in the Everyday in Santosh Bakaya’s Din about Chins

-Sanjay Pandita


Santosh Bakaya’s Din about Chins arrives not merely as a literary artifact, but as a living, breathing celebration of the quotidian rendered lyrical through a mother’s gaze. In this luminous and inimitably effervescent collection of vignettes, Bakaya plumbs the layered emotional landscapes of motherhood, daughterhood, and the everyday absurdities that bind them. One might be tempted to categorize it as memoir, humour, or familial reflection—but such reductionism would do disservice to the book’s polyphonic cadence and thematic depth. Din about Chins defies genre the way a free-spirited daughter might defy her mother’s sense of aesthetic decorum—and therein lies its triumph.

Bakaya’s language pirouettes and sashays through the pages, marrying erudition with colloquial grace, interspersing high culture with familial idioms, and linking the domestic with the universal. What the reader encounters is not merely a narration of events or incidents from a maternal diary, but a full-bodied opera of emotions—each anecdote a libretto, each repartee a lyrical aria. She does not just write about motherhood; she embodies its paradoxes, its melancholy, its music, its whimsy, and its wonder.

At the heart of this incandescent narrative lies the richly textured relationship between Bakaya and her daughter, Iha—a relationship marked by a relentless exchange of words, worldviews, and witticisms. The title itself, Din About Chins, is a playful yet poignant invocation of bodily anxieties, filtered through a lens of affection and satire. In this deftly ironic choice, Bakaya captures the undercurrent of a generational paradox: a mother’s concern for her daughter’s health or appearance transforms into a mutual teasing, a shared idiom of intimacy. The ‘chin’, in this context, becomes both symbol and synecdoche—of age, of self-perception, of maternal worry and filial irreverence.

From the first vignette, the narrative seduces with its conversational elasticity. One moment, we find the narrator indulging in linguistic gymnastics, referencing Martin Luther King Jr. and Lewis Carroll; the next, we are immersed in a debate about tattoos, horror movies (“horrel,” in the daughter’s delightfully creative lexicon), or the ethics of giving away new clothes to a maid’s daughter. This genre-bending narrative strategy—this synesthetic intermingling of the serious and the silly—renders Bakaya’s prose uniquely textured, invoking the tradition of literary greats who transformed domesticity into art: Woolf, Munro, Lahiri.

Indeed, Bakaya’s art lies in her ability to elevate the ephemeral. The playful arguments over oxymorons or snowy owls are not merely idiosyncratic dialogues but manifestations of a deeper intellectual and emotional engagement between two fiercely alive individuals. Her daughter, often described as “mercurial,” becomes a mirror to the narrator’s own evolving philosophies. The child who questions why music, the “food of love,” can be attacked for its cultural identity is not merely being precocious—she is channelling a universal ache, asking questions that lie at the heart of our fractured world. The mother, who listens with attentive amusement and restrained awe, becomes a vessel of both generational wisdom and maternal humility.

But to dismiss Din about Chins as a series of charming conversations would be to miss its subterranean currents. Beneath the ebullience and the repartee lies a shimmering melancholy. The spectre of loss hovers delicately—Bakaya writes with aching reverence of her mother, whose death leaves an echoing silence in her life. In a scene of understated devastation, the daughter tenderly celebrates her mother’s birthday shortly after the grandmother’s passing. Such moments are where the book transcends anecdotal charm and becomes something far more elemental: a meditation on continuity, inheritance, and the spectral presences that guide us long after they are gone.

Her prose, deeply evocative and fiercely precise, allows her to pivot seamlessly between registers. A phrase as simple as “dust motes finding their way into our eyes” conjures both literal image and emotional metaphor. Are these motes specks of nostalgia, or are they tears disguised in poetic evasion? Bakaya never tells. She never insists. Instead, she trusts her reader to sense the emotional resonance that lingers between the lines, much like a Chopin prelude that withholds resolution until the final breath.

Throughout, literary allusions are handled not as badges of erudition but as natural extensions of thought. Edgar Allan Poe, Roald Dahl, Scarlett O’Hara, Oliver Twist—they inhabit these pages as co-conspirators in the familial drama. When the daughter plays with Dahlian neologisms like “swatchcollop” or “whoopsysplunkers,” and the mother fires back with “jiggered,” we are not merely witnessing linguistic banter but a symbolic transfer of cultural memory—of the fantastical and the absurd, as interpreted by two generations with shared yet distinct tongues.

The physicality of the book—the act of its writing, its editing, its manifestation—is also lovingly detailed. Bakaya’s acknowledgment section reads like a deeply emotional epilogue, where she traces the manuscript’s journey through time, space, and emotion. Her gratitude is both professional and profoundly personal. Her late father, her ever-encouraging siblings, the friends who opened their homes and hearts—each is invoked with lyrical precision and emotional weight. It becomes clear that this book is not merely a literary undertaking but a deeply lived experience, woven from the threads of remembrance and resilience.

Moreover, the inclusion of illustrations, the carefully chosen cover by Kushal Poddar, and the thoughtful foreword and afterword by fellow writers, mark Din About Chins as a deeply collaborative act of creation. It is not merely the author’s voice that echoes in these pages, but a chorus of voices—familial, artistic, intellectual—interweaving across time and space.

In the final analysis, Din about Chins is a masterclass in literary voice. It is a book that sings, not in high dramatic crescendos but in intimate lullabies and whispered confidences. Bakaya writes with a heart steeped in poetic rhythm and a mind alert to the absurdities and ecstasies of life. Her narrative celebrates not just a mother-daughter relationship but the very act of conversing—of trading words, worldviews, and wonder across the generational divide.

As the great James Baldwin once wrote, “The interior life is a real life, and the intangible dreams of people have a tangible effect on the world.”

Din about Chins embodies this axiom with grace and candour. It invites us not only to laugh and reminisce but also to listen—to the tiny tremors of love that ripple beneath the chatter, to the unsaid, to the ineffable. In doing so, it not only affirms the beauty of language but the sacredness of shared silence.

A book like this does not end; it lingers, like the scent of a familiar perfume or the echo of a beloved voice. It is a daughter’s laugh, a mother’s sigh, a reader’s quiet smile. Scrumdiddlyumptious, indeed.
***

Profile: Sanjay Pandita
A versatile writer, academic, and musician with a Postgraduate degree in English. Experienced columnist and literary contributor whose creative works—including poems, stories, articles, and book reviews—frequently appear in reputed English newspapers and magazines. A culturally active personality with notable participation in debates and music competitions, along with performances on TV and radio.

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

The Shriek


Don’t you think there is a surreal air about everything?
An Australian Pelican and a couple of seagulls have reclaimed the land,
their manner so grand. Where are the humans?
Have they headed towards the mountains to meditate and introspect?
Find out what went wrong. Who throttled the song?
Has the human jollity died, due to the air of poor quality?
Is it now a permanent harsh reality?

I cannot breathe- I cannot breathe...

Why are the hills dressed in hues of grey?
Are they mourning something, pray?
It blows hot! It blows cold! I hold my breath and listen to faint,
serrated notes of an atrophied song!
A fossil yearning to be resurrected.

 A seagull squawks. Is it gull territory now?

I breathe in staccato bursts.
Spasmodic spurts synchronizing with the gulls' squawks
Am I an oddity? Or is everyone breathing my way?

What is my interpretation of this eerie scene?
 Has the avian fraternity taken over the jetty? Isn’t that what the petty rumors say?

Through groggy eyes, I see bedraggled dreams trying to get a makeover-
I feel the waves caressing my soul - but do I have a soul?
It appears droll! Very droll.
What is that sound? Ah, It is just a shriek - the shriek of my pen!
A silhouette is bending over the carcass of lies - picking termites from the stinking heap!

Lamenting the act of the horrific hobo who ran away with the supply of oxygen
Rogues and gangsters, Villains and mobsters?
Do I glimpse a leprechaun holding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?
Woe! My fertile imagination has gone into overdrive!
In the distance, I see a scarecrow raising its wooden arms upwards -
 mumbling a prayer! What notions! Do scarecrows pray?
I don’t pray, so am I a scarecrow?
The scarecrow’s marble eyes watch me,
 trying to read my lips - I hardly spoke, did I?
 I never speak, even when needed.
The scarecrow is merely wiping surreptitious tears,
pained at the toxicity of being othered!
I choke - I cannot breathe I cannot breathe
I feel smothered!

The King of the Crickets Had It by Santosh Bakaya

The King of the crickets Had it
Santosh Bakaya
ISBN 978-93-6095-689-9
Authors Press, New Delhi, 2024
Pp, 100
₹ 295/ $ 25
 

Reviewed by Brindha Vinodh


Brindha Vinodh
Dr. Santosh Bakaya needs no introduction in the contemporary literary world. Enthusiastically expressing her thoughts through collection after collection of poetry books, she is astonishingly awesome in being prolific. Here is another exquisite book in her signature style- “The king of the crickets had it.”

In her introductory page, she says most of the poems were penned during the pandemic, when the world experienced never-before-such-a-scenario. Therefore, in the first section titled “Voices,” she begins with the sound of crickets echoing in the night amidst all the loneliness, and choking voices resulting from the void of emptiness engulfing humans, slowly progressing to the sinking “ship” in the poem “Bitter Taste” from the section “As Idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean,” where, by ship, she means life as a metaphor, and her very own one at that. She writes,
“I had Dreams. But then many had dreams.
Dreams can be no solace in such a nightmarish scenario.
……….
Martin Luther King Jr. too had a dream, still unrealized.
Will my dream dry up like a raisin in the sun?
…………..
Where was the sun? A storm was in the offing.
The water kept rising………..
Was the ship plunging into a chasm?”

Her eloquence in alluding to Langston Hughes and Martin Luther King and the helplessness of unfulfilled dreams in a pathetic plight of reality is applaudable, the result of which is this beauty of a poem, which is poignantly powerful and deftly immaculate, and by bitter taste she means not just the bitterness of the tongue of a feverish body, but the bitter taste of life itself, arising from parameters beyond her control, which finally relishes sweetness through the birth of this poem.

“A Delectable Detour” from the section, “The Tremor and the Tumult” is indeed, as the name suggests, a detour to the world of nostalgia, where she fondly recalls her “disciplinarian dad” in her ancestral house, overlooking the flowing ebbs of the Jhelum river. She recalls of delicious pancakes for breakfast and chocolate fudges, but what is impressive is her play around the words of Dicken’s novels, “Great Expectations” and “Hard times.” She pens,
“sadly eyeing Great Expectations, long fallen,
face down on Hard times.”

Dr. Bakaya is known for her naughtiness as a child, evident from her earlier collections, but here, I marvel at her brilliant wordplay. Hard times of humans and Great expectations for a better future [?] An effortless pun, if I am interpreting it right! The poem “Toothless glee” reminds me of a poem of hers in another collection, “Fractured reality” from “Sunset in a cup”- similar in its subtle approach towards ageing and love in old age, which makes me think if she is drawing connections between empty nest syndrome and the solitary gloom of pandemic times. In this section, the word night is frequently used, both as a metaphor and in its literal sense, to add emphasis on the dark times, I presume. Many poems in this section leave a lingering memory, “The girl with the stack of wood” and “The sad sparrow” in particular delve on powerful topics of the basic need of food and ecological responsibility or the lack of it, causing sparrows to dwindle in numbers. “The soldier has come”- which she says is inspired by the painting “Homecoming” by Norman Rockwell- strikes from a different angle in the end, making one ponder with this question- “Why war, why not peace?” “I am thirsty, mom” is also an unforgettable poem, haunting, hinting, in fact, about the next big war being that for water.

In the section “Ramblings,” “The frail strength of an aging man” has a gracefully mellow approach in its tone and is a mixture of compassion, inspiration and the blatant truth of mortality of man and immortality of time. On the contrary, “The notes perched on butterfly wings” is a pleasant one, a recall of the past, brimming with nostalgia, the beauty of childhood, yearning for that juvenile joy with catchy onomatopoeic lines,
“Unfazed, we continued to hum, banging, clanging, 
dangling and hanging from those trees of childhood, 
their leaves crackling with anxiety.”

In her poem, “On my virtual wall,” virtual reality is captured through daffodils dancing on her friend’s virtual wall, the fragrance of bougainvillea from another’s when social distancing was the norm, but the take away for today as one reflects nearly five years later is that we, as humans, should remind ourselves that at a time when breathing was a blessing, we understood not to take things for granted; it is only wise on our part that we adhere to love and peace forever, unmasking hatred, which also happens to be a theme in disguise not just in this collection, but Bakaya’s others as well.

The dominant subject of this entire collection is the abominable aura of a world hit by covid, but in silence, she seeks for a voice, a voice suffocated and throttled not just by a virulent virus, but one that has been suppressed by other factors in general, in a broader sense, thereby doing her job as a poet, hence the title from a line in Federico Garcia Lorca’s “The Little Mute Boy.” 

Undoubtedly, many literary devices have been used, layers of metaphors, excellent use of alliterations as in “Wicked whorls of whimsical, wheezing warriors” and “Blustery butterflies flitted around, flaunting flamboyant hues” [Barricaded no more], onomatopoeia (mentioned earlier too) apart from this one- “But it was yakking away – yak…Yak… yak …”[ A growl, a Yelp] and allusions to works of many writers like Dickens, Noami, Langston Hughes, Mary Oliver, etc. The use of language is copiously rich, though I am not surprised by it, having read her earlier collections.

There’s a column of her interview with Maria Miraglia in the concluding pages of this book, which is a unique initiative of exposing more of her thoughts in a poetry collection, this is the second of its kind if I am not mistaken, the previous one being from another collection. In it, she mentions about the wall Frost talks about, and how she perceives poetry as a powerful medium sans boundaries. She recalls that she started penning poems from class six, inspired by a girl in her class, and I take this opportunity to congratulate that now-grown-up-girl who knowingly or unknowingly introduced to the world a poet, who has been unstoppable ever since, and Maria Miraglia for evincing it out from Bakaya. Let her voice be heard more and more!

I can’t but conclude without mentioning about three different blurbs of three literary personalities, Dr. Lakshmi Kannan on the front cover and Dr. Koshy and Poet Laureate Richard Doiron on the back, each with their own perceptions of this book, but the common thread being appreciation for her splendid diction, which I wholeheartedly agree. The cover is blue, beautiful and expansive, mirroring her thoughts in this collection. AuthorsPress and Santosh Bakaya have become a wonderful combination and I wish them both success in their future endeavours as well.

Reviewer bio: Brindha Vinodh is a poet, writer, reviewer, literary critic and a former copy editor. Her debut poetry book- “Autumn in America and other poems” has been critically acclaimed. She is the recipient of Reuel International Prize for Poetry with an honourable mention and Poiesis Award International for excellence in poetry (Xpress Publications).

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

“Our Mother is concerned” Conversations with Robert Maddox- Harle

Hush!


Oh, the nightmare again!
When, oh when would I get over these nightmares? Why are these skeletons making grotesque faces at me? Is it the result of the World’s Best Horror Stories that I had been reading – re-reading lately?
But, hasn’t the world itself become a horror story- with skeletons doing a grotesque dance- no feelings- no emotions- no sensitivity- just lifeless limbs flailing around in a withered, wretched and wicked world?
 Are these empty swings that I see? No, it is some weird contraption.
A redesigned guillotine? Or just my fertile imagination going into overdrive?
Who is that pale – faced woman with that eerie expression on her face?
What is she trying to convey? That apocalypse is just round the corner? That I need to flee with my possessions? Ha Ha! I am going down the bend, I am sure. What will I do with my possessions if apocalypse is waiting in the shadows?
But the shadows are so hazy. Even the contours are not visible.
Will the pale- faced woman soon disappear into the deepening obscurity?
She is eyeing me into silence. But I am hardly talking. Maybe she is a clairvoyant and has heard the turbulence within my heart? Should I scurry from her sight? She must have been a comely beauty in her youth, I can see that from her ravaged beauty.  But, her eyes appear to be sharp. She seems to be boring holes in me. Big, mammoth holes.
“Hole!” Said Mr. Polly…Oh Beastly silly wheeze of a Hole!”  Why do I keep imagining HG Wells’, Mr. Polly sitting on a stile suffering acutely from indigestion? I am sure I am going bonkers. But that pale- faced woman is really driving holes in me! Come to think of it, she has a slight resemblance to my mother.

 
In fact, the solicitous look of every mother. The concerned look of Mother Earth, worried about a dismal, dysfunctional dystopian world, which her clairvoyant spirit can foresee?  Is she concerned about the humans morphing into heartless hobos? Is she about to break into tears?
Why do I always keep hearing those emergency sirens? And those disembodied voices: Beware! Beware! Mend your ways, before it is too late!
There goes the emergency siren again!
Sirens blaring to remind us to resurrect our lost values- kindness, compassion, humility, selflessness and humanity? Hush! Why do I see a grey mass of clouds heading towards me with loud rumbles? One cloud looks almost sinister.
Is that a spaceship among the darkening clouds? What is it carrying?
 Aliens from some other world? What if they nudge away the humans from the earth? But, where are the humans? I can see no humans- only hobos- Desensitized and demonic. Sons fighting their fathers over property?
Sweet – talking them out of money? Sending their parents into old age homes?

 Soon the surroundings were taken over by skeletons doing a surreal dance with maladroit steps, and as another siren went off they looked panic- stricken and scurried away into different corners.

And as I gasped, the face of the pale- faced woman disappeared. But before she could vanish totally, I was struck by something.
Her wagging finger.  A finger of exhortation. Of beseeching.
My eyes darted here and there and stopped at a particular point where I could discern some movement.
A dangerous- looking scorpion was heading towards me. What did it want of me? Behind it was a snake slithering, with an awe- inspiring serpentine elegance.  
It appeared as if some creatures had broken free of a surrealistic painting and were scuttling around, trying to hunt for some hiding place, from where they could wreak havoc on the already beleaguered world.  A hundred and one thoughts started churning in my mind as to how I could save the world from the impending doom.  
Then above the thoughts floated some words:

Imagine all the people
 Livin’ life in peace
You

 
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one”*   

I had slowly knuckled out the jagged specks of the nightmare, and now I was only dreaming with John Lennon of A brotherhood of man.
Ah!


* Song by John Lennon:  Imagine, 1971


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.     
***

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

When the Tables Turned


The trees have seen it all. The spunk of Spring and the gall of fall. The lone bench remembers many a besotted couple, smiling, laughing, smirking, kissing, hugging,
 chomping on doughnuts, and sipping coffee from colorful mugs, admiring the ecstatically chattering folks on the ferry.
 The bench recalls a teenage couple fighting over a strawberry doughnut, the girl licking the icing with a glutton's greed. Happy folks relax and read, feeding toddlers, their faces creased in smiles.  
"You look funny covered with sprinkles." The boy sneers.
 The girl crinkles her nose and continues licking, unfazed by the boy's jeers.  
 The sky is azure and sunny, and watches with a twinkle of amusement, as the boy whacks the girl on the head, and she breaks into a peal of laughter. 
 
Wistfully, the bench recollects the boats bobbing up and down- down and up with all the excitement at their command. 
Squeals follow as the sailing boats swirl dangerously in the waters. 
Many exuberant youngsters ride bikes with a devil-may-care attitude, singing off- key songs. 
Flower sellers sheathed in smiles, sell fresh, fragrant flowers. 
The bench is suffused with a glow of pure joy.  
But then one day, the tables turn. The apple cart is upset.
The bench loses its glow, and starts looking pallid. 
Unbeknownst to the avian fraternity, intimidated by a vile, vicious virus, humanity has locked itself within the four walls of their houses, scared eyes peeping through windows, keeping tactility at bay.
 The trees rustle, beckoning the humans to come out of their houses.
 The birds chirp themselves into a crescendo. An Oyster Catcher hops around, woebegone, looking for the child with the tricycle, whose chortles of joy had always sent it into a tizzy. Its orange-red bill seems to have lost its luster. It doesn't even like to feed on shellfish now.

Where was the kid? Where was his tricycle on which it had once taken a furtive ride?  
 Scarlet tanagers, swallows, warblers and yellowthroats all held a meeting, discussing the mystery of missing humanity.

 Humanity cowered and shivered like never before, wondering at the reason for this severe punishment. Seasons changed. 
The sun glared with full fury, the sky was covered with navy blue clouds; the rain pitter- pattered. Masked humanity still moved within the four walls of their houses, now clad in woolens. Leaves turned yellow and fell. 

The virus did not go. It sniggered in malicious glee, at its hold on humanity and its triumph in viciously imprisoning them. It had successfully unleashed a dystopian world on unsuspecting humanity. It did not want to go – yet.

The bench looked around sadly, overwhelmed with an immense feeling of loneliness, missing the impassioned discussions of intense folks, under the trees and on the benches. There was a vibrant pastiche of myriad hues in the sky, the birds were still singing, but to the bench it sounded like a threnody.  
An unending dirge, and it felt lonelier.  
Where was the revellery? Where were the rambunctious kids? The sense of loneliness seemed to throttle it, and it looked on sightlessly, hoping for some sign of hope. 
There would be hope- there is always hope. 
But till then loneliness was its only friend, so it hugged it. 
There was no taboo on hugging palpable abstractions, so they continued hugging. The Bench and Loneliness.
***

Bio: Award winning poet, novelist, biographer, TEDx Speaker, acclaimed for her poetic biography of Bapu, Ballad of Bapu, Dr. Santosh Bakaya’s twenty- eight books encompass multiple genres. Reuel International Awardee [Poetry, 2014], Setu International Awardee [‘stellar contribution to world literature’, 2018 Pittsburgh, USA], Eunice D Souza Award, 2023 [WE literary Community] she runs a column, Morning Meanderings [Learning and Creativity. Com.]
Her Tedx talk [Myth of Writer’s Block] is popular in creative writing circles.
Her collaborative e- books, [Blue Pencil] Vodka by the Volga [with Dr. Ampat Koshy, 2020], From Princep Ghat to Peer Panjal [With Gopal Lahiri, 2021] have been # 1 Amazon bestsellers.

Special Edition: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

And Memory Persists

What should I write? An elegy on the passing of an era?
An ode to the ephemerality of time? About those precious moments in the book of childhood, and one’s boisterous presence on those sepia- tinted pages? Did you say, they were trivialities? Inanities? Senseless vacuity?
No way can those nocturnal exploits, escapades, pranks, juvenile debates, and picnics in shaded corners be termed as trifles.   

But, where was the shade now?
With a flick of my fingers, I escaped into the idyllic past. Ah, there were the shades of the evening. The long shadows of dusk were creeping in a relentless advance towards our house in the University Campus, Jaipur. I saw Nipper chasing a spunky squirrel. Then, I was thoroughly amused, when I saw him bounding towards me, charging right, pouncing left, and licking me all over.
.The Guava tree was still there in the backyard of the neighbouring house, but the branches were lacklustre. We had spent many joyous moments among the branches, almost snatching guavas from the beaks of the rapacious parakeets.

Years melt, days melt, time moves on. Memories remain, erupting either in the form of evocative poetry, splashes of colour or descriptive prose.


Today again, I looked out of my window to witness the interplay of  the shades of the evening ; streaks of orange splashed all across the blue sky just some time back, appeared to be slowly disappearing, to be replaced by ominous clouds. Soon, it started raining. The versatility of the invisible painter intrigued me. Was it the surrealism of Dali, or the impressionism of Monet and Claude that had mesmerised me so?
Did one of the clouds look like a melting watch?
 Time stood still. The present melted away; the past took over. I was enchanted by the ‘persistence of memory’ always nestling in a cranny; a sound, a smell, and a word, enough to trigger it.

The rain again transported me to a long forgotten past spent laughing ,enjoying, jeering, playing, joking away our childhood years in a warm cocoon of love, affection, banter, and compassion, where Dad ruled like a benevolent, crown-less king, and mom his better half !

With my mind’s eye, I could see a bunch of naughty kids pirouetting and traipsing in the rain, shrieking and singing in untrammelled glee.  Ah, the thrilling, ephemerality of cherished moments! One of the shrieks yanked me from my reverie, and I was back to the present.

I saw a tiny, ill- clad boy rummaging in a heap of garbage.
With a happy gleam in his eyes, he picked up something. Then shooting a look in my direction, dashed away with the booty clutched firmly in a tiny hand, making me realise that all of us are hunting for some elusive treasure in order to lend some sparkle to our lives, irradiating our mundane existence.

All those treasures of the past swam into view. The neem tree planted by dad had grown along with us from a droopy, diffident sapling into a huge, shady canopy. It appeared to be throwing a rollicking rustle my way, happy at my sudden appearance. A magpie robin sedately perched on one of its branches, went into a litany of chirps. I stood behind the tree to eavesdrop on my idyllic past. Did it really exist?

Who was that figure in white, smiling in my direction, a hand raised in benediction? My granny! I still have a picture from those wonderful days standing out in all its dental glory!   I, a mere toddler sitting in granny’s lap, smiling for the camera, with my two front teeth shining, trying to compete with granny’s three teeth!  Dental dearth evoking mental mirth!

I also saw sprint champions running all around the garden. Who were they?
 Just moments frozen in time. Etched in memory. Moments long gone, but still existing in subterranean depths.

 Just a few days back, I heard the rumblings of a thunderstorm, and I am sure I saw Mom, in the whirlwind, standing forlornly under a vigorously shaking tree.
“Is it you Mom?” I asked.
‘Om Om Om,’ echoed the storm.
 “Hadn’t I requested you to record my voice, so that you could listen to it when I was not around? “I heard her.
 I recalled the scene. Mom sitting on the bed, near her small temple, in Jammu, making that request. But before she could complete the sentence, I changed the topic, talking about myriad incongruities- apple pies and pastries, biscuits and buns, and the ever-smiling bread man who would get them on his bike in a box. Ah, those giddy times of childhood spent in Jaipur!
Mom forgot the Kashmiri bhajan that she wanted me to record, and started talking in hushed, reverential tones of the blissful times when Papa, with his loving baritone, infectious laughter, and his unique witticisms was still around.
And alas, having succeeded in distracting her, her voice couldn’t be recorded!   

The wanton wind chimed, mixing its breezy notes with the merry cry of the ice cream vendor.
"Okay, let me sing this bhajan, and you record it. Please do." I again heard the persistent voice. 
She sang, and I listened, eyes glistening. But this was only after she was no more.
Why didn’t I record her voice when she was still around?  
The storm was growing turbulent.
She still stood under the tree.  I ran towards her trying to catch her fluttering saree, without any success. 
But her voice rang in my ears.  “Never live only for yourself. Never be envious of others’ success. When you help someone, never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.”
“Yes Mom”, I spluttered, furtively wiping a tear with my right hand, which went unnoticed by my left.  

 Dizzying chunks of nostalgia merged, submerging me. Were those moments,
speckled with slivers of a wistful infinitude, gone forever?
What were they? Hallucinations? Flights of imagination? 
Or ephemeral slices trying to gain a strong foothold on my dizzyingly palpitating heart?

***

Bio: Internationally acclaimed for her poetic biography of Bapu, Ballad of Bapu, and biography of Martin Luther King Jr. [Vitasta] Santosh Bakaya, PhD, poet, essayist, novelist, biographer, Tedx speaker, has written twenty-nine well- received books across different genres.
Morning Meanderings is her popular column in learning and creativity.com.
Sunset in a Cup her latest book of poetry.  
Her Tedx talk, The Myth of Writer’s Block is popular in creative writing circles.
 


Three poems: Santosh Bakaya

Santosh Bakaya

The Lost Blue Bird


A Blue Bird hops onto my window sill.

I try to blow it a flying kiss, but the kiss misses it.
The fistful of blue joy flies away, into the blue beyond,
 snapping that instant bond.

 Had she lost her moorings?
Had some pest ravaged her nest?

The air around me is pulsating.
Chirp -chirp –chirp- chirp.
She has left some notes behind. 
In vain, I flail my arms, trying to catch the refrain
 of those notes; what notes can an uprooted bird provide?

I have a gut feeling, it is still somewhere there,
pathetically entangled in the unfair mists of time.
 

I saw her again. And again.
 The poor bird was hopping with a somewhat ataxic gait,
 trying to find a sure-footedness on alien ground.

 Flummoxed, I choked, at the trail of footprints, blood-soaked.

Late at night, in the neighbor’s house, John Denver sang
“Country Roads, take me home
to the place I belong”.

Somewhere, Joan Baez sang,
“I’m five hundred miles from home.”

 I could also hear some plaintive notes.
 I was sure it was the sad bluebird singing.
 An elegy for her lost home.

***

 

2 Not the same

Towards unchartered lands, he headed,
heart beating erratically,
as though in sympathy with his displaced self.
 
The breeze was achingly familiar. But it was not the same.
The rustle of the trees was familiar. But it was not the same.
.
The feelings in his heart waged a war.
“How are you?” A stranger asked, in a rather pompous manner.
 It was difficult to gauge whether the expression
 on his face was a smile or a smirk.

He looked at him with gritty indifference.   
At night he gazed in awe at the infinitude
 of a starry sky, and sighed.
He found it bizarre not to locate the star
he regularly communed with back home.
Maybe it had been displaced too?

Where do stars go when displaced?
Do they lose their twinkles? Their velveteen sheen?
Someday, would he again commune with his star?
The one that made eyes at him and only he could understand
 what it was trying to convey?

***

 

3 The Song that my Granny sang


Every night
she listens to the rustle of falling leaves.
Every night,
she is stabbed by anguish.
Every night
she gazes at the stars.
Every night
with glistening eyes, her ears prick up at muted chirps.
Every night
she feels many a story running pell-mell, silently yelling
for the resurrection of its lost glory.
 
Every night
she traces the grandeur of a mesmerizing tapestry.
Every night
she furtively sneaks into that lost world of vibrancy,
and vivacity. Hope is reborn.

 Disguised as a dust mote,
 she noiselessly slips into that colorful boat,
which will take her home.
She breaks into a Lal Ded song.
‘Zuv chum bramAn ghar gatshaha’.
[God, please take me home, my heart yearns to go home.”

Yes, they did take my granny home- to her final resting place.
Slivers of nostalgia still clinging to her,
like drizzle on parched earth.
And a song still hovering on frozen lips-
 A song of wistful longing for her roots.