A few vocal words were forced under a veil,
The sins committed in the darkness of the night
Were completely covered up.
In the tender morning sun,
And in the unseasonal storm that followed,
Dreams of “new possibilities” were artfully displayed.
Lips that routinely sing Rudali (mourning songs)
Were ordered to sing auspicious wedding hymns instead.
For the silent witnesses who lost their lives
Within the lifeline of a targeted region,
Tearful tributes were paid via land-pattas and afforestation drives.
While speeding inside dust-swirling luxury cars
On the Pradhan Mantri (Prime Minister’s) highway,
The inner grief was veiled,
And an artificial smile worth ten thousand rupees a year was distributed.
The maiden who lost her youth in a brick kiln,
The young woman who vanished on her way home from school,
The adolescent girl who became a forced mother in a tribal hostel (Kanyashram),
The woman stripped naked on a crowded public street—
The news of them all was systematically wiped out
From the daily newspapers.
The germinating seed quenching its thirst from unseasonal rain,
The village bride adjust her veil by the evening lamp,
Bowing her head and chanting prayers in a low hum,
The village atmosphere vibrating
With the echoing bells of the temple’s evening Aarti,
The darkness creeping in from the riverbanks,
And the terrifying howling of jackals alongside phantom lights—
Everything was falling into a forced silence.
Wherever the “incarnate souls” (self-proclaimed messiahs) walked,
Old history was erased to write
A brand-new history.
Instead of meeting the nation’s soul in its villages,
It was captured and sent abroad,
With the promise that it would return elite and “developed”
By the centenary of India’s Independence (2047).
Meanwhile—under the fading rays of the setting sun,
The blood-stained soil of communal violence was hurriedly covered up.
A few more speaking lips will now be forcefully shut,
Familiar, dissenting faces will be buried.
Locked inside cages, they will be taught to chant:
“Chakradhara, Chakradhara, liberate me from this bird’s life!”
Before it can shed its veil and naturally take birth,
The innocent flower bud will be plucked untimely.
Wearing a mask of forced laughter on the face,
The true identity will be deeply hidden.
Yet, it will wait for the morning—
To tear away this veil of darkness,
And welcome the crimson dawn breaking in the East,
Bringing true, new possibilities.
— Ratnamaya Tripathy
Adhyayana, Balangir
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Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy
Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy
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