I had never seen a garden quite like this, Never had I seen so many flowers and bumblebees. Youth hiding behind the trees, Old age resting on the cement platforms, The future playing on the grass carpets, And on the walking trail— Time engaged in an effort to heal a few weary, unkempt bodies. The water from the fountain Was sculpting rainbows in the morning sun. The dewdrops on the grass created the illusion of pearls, But the flowers blooming upon the benches Were no illusion; they felt beautifully alive and fresh. Leaving behind all the exhaustion of the night Tucked inside her blanket, She was gathering the morning warmth into her winter clothes. The color on her lips had not yet faded, The kohl had not yet left her eyes. Adjusting her slipping veil with care, She was resetting her anklets. Her footsteps slowed down, Her eyes filled with a shy grace. Just as she straightened her sweat-drenched body, Tired from walking and walking… The whistle of the pressure cooker broke the dream. From the kitchen, a voice called out: "Aren't you going for your walk today? It's already getting late..." — 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

From the innocent faces of hundreds of displaced people, Whom do I ask to recount The tragic tale of being waterlogged? Who will tell, and how, the way it submerged— The village temple, the cremation ground, the schoolhouse, The mango orchard where we played Dahimankidi (monkey-branch game) in childhood, The shrine of the village goddess, receiving offerings since our ancestors' time, The drumstick backyard garden won during the brothers' partition, And the Bhagabata Tungi (village religious community hall) where we daily prayed, "Save me, O Lord, I am but a mere mortal"—how it all drowned? How did it feel deep inside the chest When the village banyan tree was being chopped down? The very tree where, after tying sacred threads for sixteen Tuesdays, The eldest daughter had left for her groom's house. When the bulldozer rolled over the temple steps Where, after four daughters, a mother had crawled bare-bodied daily Praying for a son—how did that strike the liver? The experience of the first rain, getting drenched with a lover in Mahuljhar, is now just a memory, For all those Mahua trees are now imprisoned under water. Since reaching the age of understanding, we kept hearing: A wide road will come to this village, Canal water will yield double crops, The fields will smile, the farmer will smile, No one will ever have to migrate for labor (Dadan) again, No one will toil at the brick kilns, No one will endure the bloodshot eyes of the labor contractor (Sardar). Now,…

I became confined within myself, The birds that left their nests have now returned. A little chick looked straight at the morning sun, The distant mountain drew closer, And the sense of kinship grew even deeper. These days, I like my city very much— The roads moving on the path of development. For the displaced people, Hearing "Housing for all, a tap in every home, and water in every tap," I felt immense joy. To find oneself within oneself is what life is. To be able to forever hold onto the relationships That gradually connect over time is what life is. To give someone a little space in your heart is kinship, And to not let a single tear drop from someone's eye Is perhaps what love is. I do not know any other meaning of love, I do not know whom I will fall in love with. I cannot tell the address of a lover's eyes, I cannot tell why sleep vanishes At the sound of someone's anklets. I cannot tell how much intimacy lies In a lover's tight embrace. I do not know if a lover's smile brings liberation or bondage, Desire, or merely an illusion. I only wish that there be a path to liberation, That there be a thought of living and letting others live. Whether love happens or not, May the bird of love and well-wishes Forever take flight In the open sky. — Ratnamaya Tripathy Adhyayana, Balangir —————–Original Odia : Ratnamaya Tripathy Translated by…

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…