From this week, we will feature notable poets. Ipsita Ganguli picked the brains of renowned poet, Santosh Bakaya. We also feature five poems that showcase her poetic sensibility. An exclusive for Different Truths.

Ipsita: Love personified – your poems speak of love and hope and vivid images, seeing so much in everyday mundane. Tell us your source of love and positivity?

Santosh: Well, I am a diehard believer in love and strongly convinced that love can quash all negativities. I have this inherent streak in me, which never allows me to look for the negative in anyone or anything.  Call it my naiveté, but that is the way I am made, you might say that I am a mad writer- yes, I call myself The Mad Hatter. Hate is too great a burden to bear, so I have decided to stick to love, as Martin Luther King Jr. so famously said. I also try to stick to love and imagine a love-filled world.

My source of love and positivity? Well, I guess, I am made that way. I am constantly trying to positivise things around me. Positive imaging is a part of me. In one of my essays in Flights from my Terrace, which I know, you have read, I write about travelling in a stinking, ramshackle, overcrowded local bus, almost asphyxiated by garlic and onion fumes. But, it is my positive imaging which sees me through and I emerge out of this pathetic scene, thinking that I am lying in a hammock on a beautiful beach, while the waves are singing dulcet songs. Slowly, the rampant cacophony tapers away.  

Imaging is my mantra for all negative thoughts.

Ipsita: Educationist, Ted Talker, Columnist, Author, Queen of Home, Empress of Poetry, Mentor par excellence, you inspire continuously – how do you manage time?

Santosh: Ha Ha, you know writers have this knack of exaggeration and hyperbole. I am sorry to say, but you, Ipsita Ganguli also stand guilty to the charge of hyperbole and exaggeration. Honestly speaking, I am none of these – just a hypersensitive soul who allows her heart to do all the thinking and wants to see everyone happy. Yes, I also have a wacky sense of humour, so much so, that my daughter calls me a social embarrassment! [And there is no exaggeration in that.]

How do I manage time? Well, this is a question which I have often been asked in my creative writing classes by students who make half-hearted attempts at writing. I tell them that one must steal time; time doesn’t come to you begging and beseeching you – you must filch it, pounce at it, and grab it with both hands. I tell them that I have often wished that a day had 48 hours so that I could do more writing.

I think all writers have the knack of stealing time even from their sleeping time.  

Ipsita: Bapu and King… John Lennon and dreams – imagine an ideal world and tell us about it.

Santosh: Bapu and King have been my idols and like John Lennon, I imagine a love-filled world, where there is:

Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people living life in peace…

No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people Sharing all the world…
 
where the poor little threatened dove is forever yodelling songs of peace and love reigns supreme.  You must have noticed that rag- pickers and shoeshine boys are always present in my writings. A novel of mine, which is in the final stage of editing has a shoeshine boy as one of the important characters. My dream is that the Invisibles become more visible, there are no social disparities and every dreamer has the wherewithal to realise his\ her dreams. I dream that all of us are so busy being kind, compassionate and empathetic that none has the time or the inclination to hate and be bloated with gigantic egos, jealousy and rancour. Jingoism, bigotry and an all-consuming intolerance are replaced by an overpowering love- and love can be the only antidote to the rampant and vicious hatred.

Ipsita:  You smile with life – humour is a way with you. What do you do when the chips are down?

Santosh: When the chips are down, I still smile, so what if the smile is a little awry, so what if it curves dangerously downwards. I am convinced that the bad times never last, and my awry smiles will soon gain a confident sparkle and will not teeter on the brink of an identity crisis.

Often when the world becomes too much to bear, I just shrug off the depressing thoughts and pour my anguish and angst on paper, or go out and look at the chirping birds, the merrily cruising clouds, or the reflection of the sunrays in rain puddles, and then quickly filch a few silver linings from the clouds . These sights and sounds are enough to barricade me against the onslaught of despairing thoughts.

During the lockdown days, the sun rays filtering through chinks in curtains were enough to lift me up from the blues. 

Ipsita: In this world where everyone wants to be bigger and better fast and furious, what would you tell the aspirants stepping into the world of creative writing?

Santosh: I always keep telling my students that unless one is passionate about things that one does, one will never be able to do much in life. One should have that fire which makes one restless which keeps singeing one day and night, nudging and elbowing one out of one’s procrastination and dilly-dallying. Lackluster and lackadaisical attitudes can prove self – defeating.

The aspiring writers need to read a lot. I have come across many youngsters who consider reading a waste of time; unless one reads, one is clueless about many things.  All aspirants need to keep the windows of their minds open and let the fresh, rejuvenating breeze flow in; this breeze will bring with it chunks of creativity.

And yes, there are no short cuts to fame, no cut and paste jobs – only a single-minded dedication and an undying passion.

One should not be bothered about being RIGHT, but one should just go ahead and WRITE!  Make writing an obsession, and just pour your heart out, and then see the words do your bidding.

Thanks a ton, Ipsita Ganguli and Different Truths for this wonderful opportunity.

***

Five Poems of Santosh Bakaya

The Rugged Mountains

Ah, why do these rugged mountains
evoke memories of long, long ago
yes, long, long ago,
when every cloud was a shape -shifting miracle.
Every dust mote created magic.
Now, why do these soft, tender clouds,
so fluffy and frolicsome, fill me with dread?
I shudder at the murder of their tender dreams
as they crash against the mountains.
Stone hearted and cold.

You know what?
The rugged formidability of these mountains
also reminds me of that stone-hearted,  strict gardener,
broad-faced,  with high cheekbones,
spreading his rough elbows out in a belligerent pose
as he gave me a piece of his mind,
when we furtively plucked guavas
from the guava tree in the nursery.
His bellows echo in my ears, still, chilling me to the bones,
and I once again become a shape-shifting cloud, floating merrily,
merging into the blue expanse,  gloating with juvenile mirth
that the stone-hearted gardener can see me no more.
I had finally settled a score.

The First Peony

The cacophonous time callousing the eardrums,
the roar of war drums, humming away,
accusations and hate speeches galore,
grabbing the eyeball.
When my ears are scarred by this cacophony,
I switch off and recall, many firsts.

Ah there, do you see what I see– the first peony?
The first snapdragon, the upright hedge parsley,
the green mulberry flowers all prostrate at my feet,
greeting me with their verdant sheen.
Spring had finally arrived in my garden.

There is a triumphant double- toned chorus
drowning the election cacophony,
while the rabble with a knuckle-biting cluelessness
awaits the results.
Then the memories, rambunctious and loud,
pull off their boots, sink into the bunks,
hands-on mouths, giving vent to hysterical titters,
and those flamboyant butterflies of the past begin flitting around.
Round and round, blurring the present.

Was it a trick of the senses?
Or had I once again mangled the tenses?
I have a sweet tooth; to me, even vinegar
tastes like honey. 
Once again, I purposely trick my senses,
happily mangle my tenses
and am beholden to that golden page, that effervescent age 
when flowers of myriad hues
created a symphony
drowning the chaotic cacophony.

I hear it is Snowing in Kashmir

I hear it is snowing in Kashmir, and I hear a lot more.
No, I don’t hear the whirring of papa’s mind,
as he sits there, in the patio sipping kehwa with mom,
while we, the kids chatted up a storm, as he twirled his Sheaffer pen.
Nor do I hear the snowflakes falling on the ground.
But, I see that broad forehead furrowed in concentration,
as a welter of words chase each other in that fertile mind, 
running helter-skelter, like the snowflakes in our verdant lawn,
dancing that exuberant dance, matching their steps
with the first streaks of dawn.
Slaying the demons, playing with the grass,
drumming and patting.  
 
Even in the sweltering heat of Jaipur, the sun’s fiery ardour dimmed
before the riotous energy of the words, which in his mind brimmed.
My papa never got any fame for his writings, though
as it was only in his mind that they did gush and flow.
No, he was no procrastinator, either,
but he was taken away too soon,
along with that boon of words, one sad day in June.
 
Yes, some he did scribble on paper,
some escaped his lips, in a powerful baritone.
He never could compile those humorous, satirical verses,
and that half-finished novel, written in his beautiful handwriting
sometimes even in the biting cold of Kashmir.
Immersed he was, so much in life,
till death overpowered him one sad day in June.
  
I leave the bed, trying to hide my red-rimmed eyes,
dust off those snowflakes of memories,
and venture out into the sunlight of another morning,
warm words throbbing in my head, but embracing my cold body tight.

The Fire Still Burns

Lying on the beach
trying to reach for the stars,
dreaming of buying a snug little cottage on Mars
amidst staccato bursts of glee, cheered on by the birds in the tree.

 Tracing the contours of a teddy bear in the clouds.
“I want to hold your hand”, you did croon
in your baritone grand, looking at the silvery moon
as it cruised along, raptly listening to your Beatles song.

Was it really so long ago
when Cupid had used the arrow and bow
on a shy, petite girl?
Ah, look how chunks of memory unfurl.
Those love drenched gestures elaborate
gushing forth from the heart straight.

 
Time’s winged chariot moves on.
In the blink of an eye, an age is gone.
 
But the moon still stealthily edges
towards the window ledge
and a mischievous moonbeam shines on a hand,
creeping towards another, with a soothing familiarity.
Somewhere a nocturnal bird sings a beguiling song,
 and once again
Tender is the Night.

My Sunflower Moment

Grey or skewbald or dun and bay
the horses of imagination, reddish brown too,
 galloping toward that elusive rendezvous
often, bestowing nods of vague recognition.

 Yesternight there was thunder and lightning
 and there was rain.
It poured and poured, and thunder roared,
 loud and strong,
 it rattled against the windowpane,
 lashed against the doors,
 loud and strong. 
A mélange of thoughts also roared
loud and strong.
Packing an emotional intensity, almost infantile.  
But also, loud and strong.

The morning was a sunny refrain
 of love and warmth, almost surreal.
I peeped out of the window,
  last night’s scars still etched on its panes.
 Hey, what was that? A fancy dress show?
 Why did the flowers glow, so?  
Had my childhood been resurrected, with all its flamboyance?
The sunflowers were dreaming their flamboyant dreams,
and one sunflower dandy, almost looked as if it were
bandying about a pair of sunglasses, branded,
with a look so heartwarmingly candid.

  
 May everyone have a sunflower moment,
submerging last night’s rain and brine
in a profusion of warmth.
Let this be mine.

Photos from Facebook

Ipsita Ganguli

Ipsita Ganguli is a business consultant and poet-travel writer-heritage-and-art enthusiast. Her poems have been published in various e-zines and anthologies. She is a main character in the Kolkata Cocktail poetry film. She has ideated and conducted online talk shows, Cafe, and curated offline poetry events for Kolkata Literary Meet and at Kolkata Centre for Creativity. Ipsita has authored two poetry books, "Of Love, Longing, and Random Pondering" and "Rooted, India 75, and We the People."

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