Look, in your long period of silence…… See how much commotion fills the entire city. The decision that I had taken, The steps that I had advanced— Were they wrong or were they right? Where is the time to sit and judge……? In this city, it takes no time for rumors to spread, And it takes no time at all to suffocate a voice. Yet, I stand absolutely unyielding In the decision I have made. I have no regrets over your rejection; My only sorrow is this— That I made a grave mistake In recognizing the true nature of a heart. The earth must be drenched by now, The forests and orchards must be soaked In the very first rain of the month of Asadha. But within the garden of my heart, A desolate monsoon of Shravana rages on, Drenching me now solely In the pouring clouds of memories. The one for whom you are lighting The evening lamp right now— Look…… It is not for the sake of the light, my dear; Losing its direction, a soul destroys itself In the desperate hope of finding a life. Someone once said That silence is a sign of consent. Because of your long period of silence, Today, I am the one who stands defamed Across the entire city. — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy Want to read this poem in Odia ? Click Here Want to read this poem in Hindi ? Click…

Know this—against the hand you have raised at me, I cannot raise a hand of curses in return. Now that you have raised your hand, Perhaps you are forgetting that Your hand, its veins, and even the very blood flowing through them Belong to me. Nurtured under the shelter of my hands, Through the tender touch of my palms, and in exchange for my blistered joints— Your hands and your entire body were shaped. Patatting whose back and receiving whose support Are you showing such audacity, my dear (Dhana)? Perhaps you do not know— Here, to apply healing ointment on a wound of the right hand, Even the left hand refuses out of sheer contempt. The hand that was once only worthy of touching my feet for blessings— Do not attempt to rule or dominate with that very hand. Once my breath leaves this body, Even your hands will not find the strength To carry my corpse on your shoulders. Just like water that has flowed away, or words that have been spoken, A hand once raised in anger can never be taken back. You might manage to erase the scars upon your skin, But how will you ever heal The deep wounds inflicted inside the chest? Because you have never witnessed the shattering of a mountain, You have set out to pierce through rocks with your soft, delicate hands. Try breaking a hard stone floor just once, And you will realize how badly you need a strong, seasoned hand.…

Even amidst your thousand denials, I have sensed a hundred thousand words of consent. Even through a mere blink of the eyes, it can be understood; Even from silent lips, the language of the heart Can be easily discerned. To speak the mind's inner truth, one does not need An isolated, lonely world. Even within a crowded space, one can experience A fresh, new definition of love. To comfort the heart, there is no need For the southern spring breeze, a beautiful orchard, A rainbow in the sky, a chilly wind, The flowing stream, or a bountiful abundance of flowers. Even amidst a chaotic clamor, love can be understood— All it takes to recognize a heart is a heart itself. By the chains of whose authority Are your feet bound within a restricted boundary (Lakshman Rekha)? Under whose strict and watchful discipline Are your eyes filled with a torrential downpour of July rains (Shravana)? Upon whose courtyard altar (Chaura) are you compelled To light the evening lamp? Here, a pair of eyes has been searching for ages For your footprints in the courtyard and The playful restlessness of your gaze. Some say the rain arrives Bringing with it the seasonal cycle of union. Yet here, burning in the agonizing fires of separation, Stands a lush green forest, Desperately searching for the touch of your soft hands— And the soothing coolness of love. — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy Want to…

Someone had told me To keep the window open all through the night. Whether it was a request or a command— Without understanding, I left the window wide open. During the first watch of the night, came the fragrance of jasmine; During the second watch, the bright, spotless moon. During the third watch, the voice of some unknown bird, And during the fourth watch, an unseasonal rain arrived— Drenching the window railings Along with the calendar on the table, The poetry diary, and the flower vase. Yet, the window remained completely open. In the morning, I asked, "Why did you tell me to keep the window open Last night...?" Smiling softly, she replied, "You silly (Buddhu)... You couldn't sleep last night, could you? You spent the entire night thinking only of me. That is exactly why I had told you To keep the window open..." — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy Want to read this poem in Odia ? Click Here Want to read this poem in Hindi ? Click Here

It is said that You take incarnations, age after age, To alleviate the heavy burdens of this earth; To kindle the light of hope in the broken minds Of the poor, the destitute, the downtrodden, and the helpless. Today, the entire world stands startled and terrified, As malice and vengeance reach their absolute peak. In the very name of civilization, barbaric behaviors Are crossing every boundary and border, And the distant footsteps of doomsday can be heard drawing near. An era of misfortune has arrived today; Mother Earth is heavy-hearted, her face pale with sorrow. With the arrival of autumn (Sharata), return to us, O Mother! Dispel our weariness and soothe the hearts of millions. — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy Want to read this poem in Odia ? Click Here Want to read this poem in Hindi ? Click Here

Every time I picked up the paintbrush To draw a portrait of myself, Instead of my own face, each time I saw someone else entirely. Not one, not two, But seven complete portraits. Failing to find myself in any of them, I finally gave up the attempt. In the tick-tock sound of the wall clock, I measured the pulse of the night. In every warm sip of my tea, I heard the snoring of a sleepy night. In the distant, agonizing wail of an unknown bird, I heard the scream of a helpless, innocent woman. In the howling of the jackals, I heard the mocking laughter of an incompetent ruler. In the furious barking of the street dogs, After a criminal had comfortably escaped, I heard the angry slogans of the public demanding justice and arrests. This time, at the sharp blast of the night watchman's whistle, The entire night fell dead silent. A voice seemed to echo: "Whoever you are, wherever you are, Stay exactly as you are. Do not protest, do not raise any counter-questions. The 'good days' (Achhe Din) are arriving ahead. If you can endure everything in absolute silence and survive, You shall witness the grand cosmic form of the Vishwaguru (World Leader). You may choose not to be a devotee of God, But you must certainly become a blind follower (Andhabhakta); Otherwise, pack your bags and leave this country!" Finally, with the combined morning chorus Of the vegetable-vendor and the fishmonger, My sleep was broken.…

"Hey… I am coming" Just to find the real answer to your "I am coming", I could never ask you when you are coming, Nor could I ever answer when you would return. Now, with what words of solace do I comfort That sixty-year-old father…… Who, after carrying his thirty-year-old son on his shoulders, Has just returned from burning his corpse at the crematorium? With what words do I distract and soothe The aching heart of that mother, Who, even today, as dawn breaks, Gathers your favorite drumstick greens (Munga Saga) from the backyard? Why do I fall dead silent At the question coming from those innocent lips— "Uncle…… when will papa come home...?" To this day, I haven't gathered the courage to look into That particular pair of eyes, To whom I had assured while leaving— "Have patience…. do not worry, Everything will be alright." But absolutely nothing turned out to be alright. Even today, the morning arrives With the wailing sirens of an ambulance, And the night descends with the burning fires of the crematorium. Yesterday it was your house…… today it is someone else's. The debts borrowed for your sister's wedding Are still left to be cleared. The house that was being constructed When you were blessed with a family— Remains unfinished to this day. Thinking that all worldly family responsibilities had finally ended, The feet that were heading toward the community prayer hall (Bhagabata Tungi), Are now out on the streets once again, in search of…

If the churning of the ocean (Samudra Manthan) were to happen once more, Which side would you choose to align with? Could you fight for equal rights During the distribution of the divine nectar (Amruta)? Becoming an ascetic, could you refuse To bring down the river Bhagirathi from the heavens? Becoming Bharata, instead of worshiping the wooden sandals (Paduka), Could you forcefully bring Lord Rama back to his kingdom? Becoming Arjuna, could you refuse the call to arms, Putting an end to the absolute resolve for war? Could you, in a mere flash, alter the truth that "The destruction of desire is the destruction of sorrow"? By not letting the log of wood Float away into the vast ocean, Could you, as the tribal chief Biswabasur, protect Your beloved deity, Lord Nilamadhab? Under whose command do these events unfold? At whose gesture does the cycle of seasons change? If everything is truly within your supreme control, Then, witnessing this mockery of human existence, Why do you remain so quiet, O Silent God...? — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy Want to read this poem in Odia ? Click Here Want to read this poem in Hindi ? Click Here

Come, let us sit in silence for a while. No matter which season holds its court outside, Let us simply become like the sculptures of Konark. Whatever thoughts may cross anyone’s mind upon seeing us, Let us only think of each other. Come, let us sit in silence for a while. You must remember the evenings of our childhood— The riverbank, the deep orchards, and the game of hide-and-seek. The playful, make-believe anger, and the silent hurts (Abhimana). Let us search once again for those childhood paper boats. Come, let us sit in silence for a while. The flower that slipped from your braided hair, The half-written poem in the rough notebook, Your anklet—which you hid away while pretending That it was lost and could not be found anywhere in the river sand, And the Abir (colored powder) from your hands that drenched me in spring— Are all still treasured safely with me. Let us open the old diary and read the ghazals of our memories. Come, let us sit in silence for a while. Let the raindrops bring an intoxication to the heart, Let the body crave the warmth of love in the winter fog. Be it in the scorching heat of summer or the gentle breeze of spring, Let us sit and experience love all by ourselves. Come, let us sit in silence for a while. I know you are terrified of the eyes of the world, While I am someone who faces every storm with an open…

Even after reading the lines of your own destiny and future yourself, How can you manage To live with so much joy...? Being so far away from your loved ones, How do you still manage to weave Bonds of deepest reverence...? Ahead lies a completely dark and desolate road, Yet, where do you find the courage To keep advancing forward...? While the entire path is filled with questioning eyes, How can you still walk your way smoothly...? Amongst the familiar, friendly faces, Are you unable to see Their mocking, derisive smiles...? Here, when light arrives, even one's own shadow Abandons the body. To apply healing ointment on a wound of the right hand, Even the left hand refuses out of sheer contempt. Within the sweet messages of well-wishes, Can you really not see The venom of bitter criticism...? Beholding the urn of nectar (Amruta Kalasa), Before you close your eyes to drink from it, Recall Chanakya’s verse, just once! — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy Want to read this poem in Odia ? Click Here Want to read this poem in Hindi ? Click Here