NATURE Poem: Pangolin Beneath the Palash, by Sidhi Batra

I am the pangolin–
quiet keeper of the underbrush,
born with my home
stitched into my back.

Not predator.
Not prey.
I belong to the hush between
jasmine bloom and fallen fruit,
to the hour when light
filters green
through the lace of Palash trees.

They flower without asking–
blossoms like small suns
tipping from branches,
painting the forest floor
in the language of fire.
Still, I move beneath them unseen.
A rustle. A shadow. A breath.

I live on bitterness–
ants and termites,
the hidden hunger
of soil’s soft machinery.
My tongue writes no songs,
only slow offerings
into silence.

I have no roar to give.
Only the art
of becoming smaller
when the world grows loud–
curling into a prayer
of bone and belief.

And the forest understands.
The coral vine does not shout.
The civet does not demand witness.
The turmeric glows quietly in the dark.

Sometimes I think
you’ve forgotten
how many things
live without needing to be seen.

But one day,
you may find yourself
beneath a gulmohar,
hand on its bark,
and wonder
why the stillness feels familiar.

It will be me–
the pangolin,
the gentle lesson
the wild once whispered
and you almost remembered.