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…