DR SANTOSH BAKAYA - POEMS

Dr Santosh Bakaya, academician- poet- novelist- essayist - Ted Speaker has been critically acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of  Bapu .  Her latest book is a biography of Martin Luther King Jr .[ ONLY IN DARKNESS CAN YOU SEE THE STARS]
Her other published books are ; Where are the lilacs?
 Under the apple Boughs
 Flights from my Terrace 
 A skyful of Balloons
 Bring out the tall Tales[ short story collection in collaboration with Avijit Sarkar ]

​The Ordeal at Sea

The water was rising, rising.
 Rising.
The air whistled, and the ship swallowed the water,
with a furious sputter.
What was that? The startling sound of a raging torrent?
Shouts and screams, frenzied mutterings.
A roaring cataract?
 Were we sinking in some deep abyss?
Brains were shattered, thoughts confused.
Was this the end of the world?
 We were drowning, drowning.
The water rose to the bunks
and stopped there.
Were we saved? Faces lit up, a light kindled.
Parched throats croaked, choking on their own saliva,
 “A swig, a swig,
 not of brandy or vodka,
but plain drinking water, please.”
Quivering hands groped for the pitcher,
brows creased   in anticipation.
Ah, the ministering angel healed parched lips.
The lingering echoes of the fog horn were drowned
 as the strings of an invisible mandolin
miraculously twanged and scattered a merry roulade.

​

​Dream chasers

​The mannequin beckoned from outside the ostentatious shop.
Silencing my pangs of guilt, I walked on towards the window,
[there was no harm in window shopping, was there?]
But there was something eerie in the window,
what was it? Why couldn’t I see the items displayed?
 The items showcased?
Was there a patina of dust on the window?
What was wrong?

The father who died chasing the American Dream,
trying to cross the River from Mexico to Texas,
his hope morphing into gut- wrenching hopelessness ,
his not yet, two year daughter tucked under his shirt,
one tiny arm still draped around his neck. All hope lost.


 Why did this portrait of desperation
superimpose itself on the window?
 My ears rang with the lingering echoes
of loud and caustic debates over border policy.
 Did I see a tear in the eyes of the mannequin,
or was it that my eyes were blurred?


I gulped, as I saw a scrawny rag picker
 scavenging in the garbage can,
like only a desperate rag picker can,
 one eye longingly looking towards the shop,
window- shopping, chasing dreams.
 Hope stirred in his tiny breast, his eyes became round
as he bent down and picked something from the ground.

​The Darts of Darkness

Every night when I creep into bed,
I grapple with the darts of darkness
poking me from all sides.
A mind numbing collage of the past and present
superimposes itself on my heavy heart.
 I see a chunk of a boy,
sitting on a log near the bank of River Lidder*,
 looking at me, lost.
 “Where are your parents, little one?”
 I ask, ruffling his hair.
 “I have no parents”, His voice is a muffled moan
as his lips threaten to tilt downwards.


 The crossfire of hate continues and the drones drone on.
I see the beseeching look of another tiny one
 peeping from a detention center,
the word ‘mommy’ frozen on his petrified lips .
 Darker becomes my quivering soul.
 I now see another five year old
dancing on prosthetic legs
[You see, this one had lost his legs in a landmine   in Afghanistan]
 I sigh, quickly shaking myself free
of these shards of a dystopian legacy
 and willfully try to recall some happy scenes,
 but a five year old superimposes himself on those scenes
  dancing on prosthetic legs, and my soul is dark again.

 * River Lidder- Famous river in Pahalgam , Kashmir . India

​The ancient Embers

Long years back, as we sat lost in each other,
 it suddenly began to rain, I hastily
picked up the picnic hamper,
scampering away towards the shady tree, and you?
You picked up your hat
[You have always been obsessively fond of hats]
 and raced back into the shady cocoon of the willows.
 Now, alas, you are hidden in the willows
 of my imagination.
[But, you come at will, with your looks that kill].
Look, there you are again,
as a pallid sliver of the crescent moon
peeks from behind the clouds, with a soft diffidence.


Remember , when the late night tide was receding
 I scooped up the bubbles , and blew at them ,
like a fool that I was , and your soft , lingering touch
on my cheeks that night  was a ray of sunlight .
So sensuous, so soft.
Then, like a greater fool,
gingerly, furtively, I merged my footprints with yours,
smiling so bashfully. A sheepish smile.

Those ancient embers still burn bright,
 lighting up my darkened soul.
Some intoxicated butterflies still stumble and tumble,
as I chase them with a reckless aplomb,
 and gasp as I see you disappearing behind the willows.
Forever.

​

It is raining today

​Ah, another misty morning dawns
catapulting me to the time
when life was a harmonious rhyme,
belting out song after melodious song,
when nothing could go wrong.
 Yes, when nothing was wrong!


 A real peach of a life in my paradise,
 laughing eyes, blooming cheeks,
a dazzling smile,
when nothing could go wrong.
Yes, when nothing was wrong.

When life perched daintily on a sun- steeped boulder,
face covered with a healthy tan,
vibrant roses pinned to its breast
under a flood of golden sunshine,
a white straw hat sitting pretty on its head ,
when nothing could go wrong.
 Yes, when nothing was wrong.

 Night came and the moon beams fell
on a crackling fireplace and a kitten,
snuggling next to it in feline grace.
A mug of kehwa*  on the frosted window- sill,
as the snow- flakes danced and pranced
with reckless joy.

And Frank Sinatra sang let it snow, let it snow,
as the pine trees head- banged in glee,
untrammeled.
 Now, it is raining today,
 a mug of coffee sits on the window – sill,
catapulting me back to the day,
 when even the chilly winter months were warm,
and we sipped life to the dregs form huge mugs of kehwa.
 Yes, it was the time when nothing ever went wrong.

Kehwa - kashmiri green tea , garnished with saffron , crushed almonds
and cardomom .