Sow the seeds of memory In the soil drenched by the rains of Shravana (monsoon). Whether they sprout or not, Nourish them with the fertilizer of hope and faith, And weed out the wild, unwanted grass of despair. Wait… Just wait… But do not harbor the blind belief That a tree planted during an auspicious hour (Amruta Kala) Will only bear nectar-sweet fruits. From the rainbow visible on the distant horizon, Pick the color that suits you best. Play politics with those colors, Create your own gods, Or else, declare yourself a messenger of God! A new history has already been written; Now, keep your mouth shut and support it. Stand on the grand royal street (Rajadanda), And loudly proclaim your caste, your lineage, Your history, and your birthplace! Do not hide your stained, tarnished body Among the Kashatandi (white thatch grass) of the riverbanks. With your mind drenched in the colors of the Parijata flower, In which river's water will you wash yourself? At which bathing ghat (Tutha) will you bathe To purify your soul? To which mountain peak will you climb To proclaim your nationalism? Wait… Those sown seeds of memory Will pierce right through the hard rocky floor and rise. Gathering the harvest of success, This nation, this race, will smile once again. —————– — 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…

Now, for some time again, One has to remain in complete silence. The tsunami that rose from the ripples Of a single pebble thrown into the water— Must now be faced. Who knew that a strike from a crab, Floating down with the rushing current, Would dissolve and destroy An age-old relationship? Now, without forging any new bonds, One has to remain in silence. Sometimes, even the mirror lies, And one's own shadow commits a mistake In all the mathematics of life. Who knew that the newly planted trees Would bear poisonous fruits so soon? Now, swallowing all that venom, One has to become Nilakantha (Lord Shiva). Do not show the way to a lost traveler, Do not give even a drop of rice-water (Torani) to the hungry. For who knows, the hand extended to help Might end up being bound in iron chains. In this game of dice between truth and lies, The lie always wins. Truth does not even get the chance To prove itself as the truth. Absorbing the ticking sound of time within oneself, Now, for many days to come, One has to remain in silence... —————– — 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

There are still some words left to say, There are still some words left to hear. There are still some promises left to fulfill, There are still some debts left to repay. An untitled poem still needs to be given a name, A tree made of words still needs to be nurtured with care. For those who departed without saying a word, I still need to keep a silence in their memory. From this world of give-and-take, to those souls who left taking nothing, I still need to ask—who truly owns the wealth they earned? The ledger of pending accounts is still incomplete, The accounting of debts to the divine is still incomplete, The accounting of one's patriotism is still incomplete. Before the dawn arrives, those uncounted, sleepless nights of age Must be safely guided to the shore. The Krishnachuda (Gulmohar) tree I planted no longer blooms. In that garden where every single leaf has withered and fallen, I still need to channel water once again. To measure the distance between the earth and the sky, Whatever life span I had has already run out. And now, after staring at the horizon, I just need to laugh a self-deprecating laugh at my own existence. Straightening the hand that has just risen upward, Erasing my own name from the chest of my beloved city, I still need to utter one final word... "Farewell." —————– — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir —————– Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy…

The words you once taught me, Have now fallen completely silent. Amidst the choked emotions and tears, Even attachment starts to shatter and fade. With time, the span of life increases, Yet the heart can never truly grow up. The single word—"Maa..."—fails to escape the lips, And aches deeply within the chest. Before a child's hands even become capable, God reclaims His own reflection. Without colors, without a canvas, An image must now be painted in the mind. Though the evening lamp is lit at the courtyard shrine (Chaunra), The place of the lamp that went out inside the house Remains forever unfulfilled. The broken sleep in the dreams of the night, The heart stifled between silent hurts and grievances, The lips unable to speak one's inner thoughts to anyone, And the hands counting the 365 days of your absence. The lingering feelings of whether someone will visit or not— One has to learn to control it all. Someone or the other always offers consolation, saying, "Whatever is destined to happen, happens." Yet, after reading everything, hearing everything, and understanding it all... That single word, "Maa...", still searches for a way to break free from within. —————– — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir —————–Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy A Brief Reflection This continuation digs even deeper into the raw, ongoing grief after a year of loss ("counting the 365 days"). It beautifully captures the universal truth that no matter how old we get, losing a…

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…

Everything has returned… Once again, fresh green leaves sprout On the barren, withered tree. The mango tree in the backyard Is filled with blossoms. The courtyard smells sweet With the fragrance of jasmine. The Phalsa trees are bursting With bright red flowers. The lonely birds have chosen Their respective nests. Now, not a single bench in the park Remains empty. There is a massive crowd Around the Gupchup (Puchka/Golgappa) stall. Not a single stale flower is left At the florist's shop. Now, just like before, Not a single letter gets lost In a wrong address. On the newly bought radio, Evergreen songs play every single day. The people who used to watch intently For the path of your arrival, Are now busy working in MGNREGA. The uneducated women who used to gossip And whisper among themselves, Are now outside the city limits Due to the anti-encroachment drive. In the Azadi Ka Amrut Mahotsav, Along with tricolor lights, My beloved city is dazzling and shimmering. Development and displacement, hand in hand, Play with the colors of the spring. Everything has returned… No one is upset or angry with time. What kind of deep hurt pride (Abhimana) did you harbor That caused you to leave? Summer, monsoon, and winter have passed, And spring has returned, Yet, you did not come back. — 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…

Upon the bier of your holy journey, I offer my submission, my tears, my choked emotions, And flowers of my deepest reverence. Your resolve never to remain indebted to anyone, Has left me indebted to you for lifetimes to come. They say when time runs out, the play must end. With that final dialogue—"Everything is over"— Courage shatters, and faith dies too, With that very last breath. In the comforting hand offered by someone else, The feeling of kinship is no longer there. A handful of rice served on a leaf is all that remains, To signal your painful absence. Do all mothers leave their nests like this? After teaching their children to fly by giving them wings, They don't stay to watch them cross the ocean. Adorning and organizing the entire house, They gather the fruits of all their deeds. The fasts, the rituals, the secret vows, All remain neatly arranged on the prayer room shelf. Suddenly, the cry of "Maa..." fades into the distance, Near the cremation ground. Amidst the crowd of the final journey, All the virtues of a holy life flow silently away as tears. —————– — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir —————– Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by : Dr. Khyatimaya Tripathy A Brief Reflection on the Poem This poem captures the profound grief of losing a mother. It beautifully contrasts her lifelong selfless devotion—teaching her children to fly, keeping fasts for their well-being, and organizing the home, with the stark, sudden emptiness left by…