Lonely Retiree

A life well-lived, yet now feels overthrown with memories deep,

He gave his all, but now he's left to weep.

From dawn to dusk, he labored, gave his best, Sacrificing dreams for family’s behest. His children, now successful, far away, In foreign lands, their lives in bright array.

His wife, a constant partner in the past, Now with their kids, her presence did not last. A house once filled with laughter, now a shell, His heart, once full, now echoes like a bell.

He looks back on the years with quiet sighs, The moments missed, the tears within his eyes. He wonders, did his love go all in vain? A lifetime spent, now met with silent pain.

High blood pressure and ailments of the old, A body tired, a spirit growing cold. Yet in his heart, a flicker of a dream, That life could be more balanced than it seems.

He yearns for calls, a touch, a warm embrace, But days go by, he sees no friendly face. The sacrifice he made, the love he gave, Seem distant now, like waves upon the grave.

Yet hope remains, a spark within the night, For men like him, still searching for the light. To love themselves, to find a way to cope, To build a life that’s filled with more than hope.

So here’s to men who gave their all away, May they find peace and joy along the way. To cherish self, to live, to truly see, Their worth, their love, their legacy.

~Krishna Acharya

Northeast's Gateway- Coronation Bridge

Across the Teesta's rushing tide,

Coronation Bridge, in steel does confide.

A king's decree, a bygone age,

Yet, purpose strong, upon this stage.

Truss and arch, a structure grand,

Defying currents, on shifting sand.

A marvel wrought, in years of yore,

Connecting lands, forevermore.

From Darjeeling's slopes, to Kalimpong's green,

A vital thread, a vibrant scene.

Northeast's gateway, to the nation wide,

On National Highway, with steady stride.

Below, the river, whispers heard,

Unheard stories in old man's word.

A fleeting glimpse, for travelers' eyes,

A scenic canvas, painted in the skies.

More than steel, a symbol stands,

Of human will, on shifting sands.

Through floods and quakes, it holds its ground,

A testament to progress, all around.

So let the Coronation Bridge remain,

A silent witness, to sun and rain.

A mark of history, etched in time,

A bridge of steel, with purpose sublime.

7 Sisters Hand in Hand

Seven sisters, hand in hand,

Daughters of the eastern land.

From Assam's plains, where Brahma flows,

To Arunachal's peaks, where winter snows.

Meghalaya's mist, on flourishing hills,

Manipur's jewels, with dancing skills.

Mizoram's bamboo forests sing,

Nagaland's warriors, freedom bring.

Tripura's lakes, a tranquil dream,

Sikkim's monasteries, sunlight's gleam.

Diverse in customs, rich and bold,

An interwoven, stories told.

From Khasi whispers, soft and low,

To Mizo melodies, that sweetly flow.

Bihu's rhythm, Hornbill's flight,

Festivals vibrant, bathed in light.

Spicy curries, with a citrus zest,

Silk handlooms, the finest dress.

Headhunters' tales, and weaving art,

A land that captures every heart.

Strong and independent, spirits high,

The seven sisters, reaching for the sky.

Unity in difference, their voices blend,

A Northeast symphony, that knows no end.

In the Land of the Rising Sun

In the land of rising sun, where Himalayan topline,

Arunachal Pradesh, a cultural shrine.

Twenty-six tribes strong, their voices ring so true,

Each with traditions, whispers of the old and new.

Donyi-Polo's wisdom, is heard in the air,

Sun and moon as deities, guiding everywhere.

Harmony sought, with every living thing,

A reverence for forests, where spirits take wing.

Skilled hands weave magic, on looms so bright,

Carpets, paintings, woodcarvings, a dazzling sight.

Bamboo whispers secrets, in baskets crafted fine,

Art forms passed down, a heritage that will shine.

Festivals erupt, with color, song, and dance,

Losar's joy, Solung's strength, a joyous trance.

Aji Lamu's grace, Chalo's playful beat,

Nokte's martial spirit, tapping rhythmic feet.

Languages so many, a symphony untold,

Tibeto-Burman whispers, stories yet unfold.

Nyishi, Apatani, echoes on the breeze,

Mishmi in the east, whispering through the trees.

From arranged unions, to elopement's call,

Wedding rituals, blessings upon all.

Yellow chains of bamboo, a bond that will hold,

Sugar's sweet welcome, a story to be told.

Ancient beliefs linger, in every tribe's heart,

Spirits benevolent, playing a sacred part.

The Dandai's wisdom, dispelling every fear,

Sacrifices offered, for a future crystal clear.

                                             ~Krishna Acharya

Deusi Bhailo and a Nimble Feet

In every heart a Tihar's lights ignite,

Deusi Bhailo dances, decorate diwali night.

Men and women, in joyous throng,

Sing and step, where music belong.

Deusi's call, on a madal's beat,

Bhailo's grace, with nimble feet.

Flutes and dholki, a rhythmic sound,

Echoing blessings, all around.

House to house, deusi team goes,

Songs of harvest, story shows,

Blessings offered, for wealth and cheer,

As the New Year's promise draws near.

Dakshina's gifts, a sweet reward,

For melodies shared and for every word.

Colorful dresses, with vibrant shade,

Reflecting culture, that time embed.

Ancestral tradition, warmly held,

In every step, a story spelled.

Community strong, spirits high,

Deusi Bhailo, reaching for the sky.

Tihar's flame, a guiding light,

Deusi Bhailo, dancing through the night.

 Lovely beats in every rhyme,

A cultural treasure, for all of time.

Sorathi and Madal

In Himalayan air, where Robin birds fly,

Nepali Sorathi, a joyous cry.

Lively rhythm, on madal's beat,

A call and response, voices meet.

From Sikkim's slopes, to Darjeeling's grace,

Sorathi's melody, sets the heart apace.

Flutes like whispers, and dholki's call,

Stories of old, for one and all.

Love's sweet yearning, in a maiden's song,

Of harvest bounty, where fields grow strong.

Social commentary, with wit so keen,

Life's story, on a vigorous scene.

Dashain's bright lights, Tihar's festive cheer,

Sorathi echoes, ringing near.

Ancient tales, of heroes bold,

In songs they live, never to grow old.

Nepali spirit, in every note,

Sorathi's magic with wonderful quote.

A bridge between past, present, and dreams,

A cultural treasure, forever it seems.

So let the Sorathi, forever ring,

In Kanchenjunga foothills, where Nepalis sing.

A song of community, joy, and pride,

Nepali Sorathi, forever will reside.

Risa Weaves Tales of the Tradition

In Tipraland, where looms click and clack,

A woven wonder, on weavers' back.

Risa, the cloth, a creamy delight,

Handcrafted beauty, bathed in sunlight.

Tripuri women, with practiced hand,

Weave tales of tradition, across the land.

Reang and Jamatia, Noatia too,

Their threads interlock, sparkling and true.

Cotton so soft, or silken sheen,

Risa's embrace comforting the teen.

Borders of magic, in colors so bright,

Geometric patterns, a geometric delight.

Wrapped with grace, a woman's attire,

Or a heady scarf, setting hearts afire.

For carrying babes, a cradle so sweet,

Risa's embrace, can't be beat.

A cultural treasure, a tradition grand,

Passed down through generations, hand in hand.

Each thread a whisper, a story unfold,

Of Tripura's spirit, brave and bold.

So let Risa flourish, with every design,

A symbol of unity, forever to shine.

A woven testament of tribes strong and free,

Risa's magic wraps you, for eternity.

Fiery Leader Bhagwan Birsa Munda

In Munda's home, where strength reside,

Bhagwan Birsa Munda, with courage as his guide.

A fiery leader, with freedom's call,

For Adivasi rights, he stood tall.

Against land grabbers, and taxes unjust,

His voice rose strong, a flicker of trust.

"Abua Desh, Abua Raj!" he cried,

Our land, our rule, let freedom abide!

He preached renewal, a faith reborn,

Hare Gomke's message, against societal scorn.

Equality sought, for all to see,

Unity forged, under a Sal tree.

The British might, he dared to defy,

Guerilla tactics, beneath a fiery sky.

Though flames were doused, his bravery inspires,

A legacy burning, with righteous fires.

(Hare Gomke is a title or phrase used within the Munda religion or culture to signify a spiritual leader.)

A Legend of Marang Buru

In the tea gardens the  spirits roam,

A legend whispers, of Marang Buru's home.

The great one, the first, the all-knowing hand,

Who shaped the world, across the sand.

From the gusty winds and starlit night,

Marang Buru spoke, with radiant light.

Mountains rose, at his command,

Rivers flowed, across the land.

Trees whistling, in a graceful dress,

Animals roamed, with nature's bless.

Sun and moon, he set their course,

Guiding day and night, a constant force.

But darkness lurked, in shadows deep,

Malevolent spirits, secrets to keep.

Marang Buru fought, with thunder's roar,

Banishing evil and violent snore.

Then from the earth, a precious spark,

He breathed life's essence, left its mark.

The first Santhal, with hopeful eyes,

A bond with nature under blue skies.

Marang Buru watches with watchful eyes,

Guiding their steps keeping fear aside

In festivals big the offerings made,

The Santhals honor, the light that pervaded.

So echoes the legend, from hearts devout,

Marang Buru's presence, filling them throughout.

The Santhali moves and 'Sereng' they sung,

The hardworking clan to which they belong.

Hahasa and Dishimoni- A Santhal Folklore

In the world unseen, where beautiful souls played,

A bamboo grove in the sunlight swayed.

From its green stalks, a folklore grew,

Two souls emerged, bathed in morning dew.

Pilchu Haram, the sacred grove,

Birthed the first Santhal, a story of love.

Hahasa, the man, with strength and grace,

Dishimoni, the woman, with beauty's embrace.

Hand in hand, they stepped into light,

The world unfolded, vast and bright.

Stars as their guide, on moonlit trails,

Learning nature's songs, and whispering gales.

The language of birds, the secrets of trees,

The whispers of wind, carried on the breeze.

Pilchu Haram's magic, forever their own,

Guiding their steps, a place to call home.

From this sacred birth, a lineage began,

The Santhal people, across the land.

Honoring Pilchu Haram, with grateful sigh,

Where life first came down the mountains high.

So echoes the myth, in voice of nature,

The Santhal spirit existed altogether.

A bond with forests, forever made,

Pilchu Haram's folklore will never fade.

Santhali Folklore: The Hare and the Moon

In tea gardens, Santhali stories bloom,

A fable whispers, dispelling gloom.

The Hare and Moon, a tale unfolds,

Of cunning plans and truths untold.

The Hare, known quick, with fur like snow,

Met a hungry Tiger, rumbling low.

The Tiger growled, with eyes aflame,

"Tonight you dine, a tasty game!"

The Hare, unfazed, with wit so keen,

Spied a firefly's flickering sheen.

"Greater prey awaits," he said,

"A celestial beast, overhead!"

He led the Tiger, through moonlit night,

To a shimmering well, a wondrous sight.

"The Moon Beast dwells," the Hare declared,

"His reflection, in this water shared!"

The Tiger peered, with stripes ablaze,

Saw his own form, in the moonlit haze.

Leaping high, with fearsome roar,

He plunged into the well's cool core.

The Hare watched, then chuckled low,

The Tiger's hunger, met a watery woe.

But from the Moon, a voice did boom,

"Deception's price, will fill your room!"

The Hare's fur, once pure and white,

Turned spotted grey, beneath the night.

A constant mark, for all to see,

Honesty's path, sets you truly free.

So whispers the tale, from ages old,

In Santhal lands, a truth unfolds.

Let cunning ways, and lies depart,

For honesty's light, will guide your heart.

Hajong Women Strong and Bright,

In  plains of Axom where dew drops gleam,

Hajong women, the female supreme.

Patini's swirl, a rainbow bright,

Woven tales in fabric's light.

Skilled hands weave, with practiced grace,

Threads of joy on nature's face.

Yellow, green, and crimson bold,

A story whispered, here it unfold.

From cane and bamboo, thin and tall,

They craft creations, big and small.

Baskets woven, sturdy and neat,

Holding treasures, garden's sweet.

More than beauty, their spirit gleams,

Resilience woven in their dreams.

Hajong women, bold and bright,

Culture's flame, a blazing light.

Karbi Culture Unique and True.

In the place where Kopili  flow,

Karbi society, a structure aglow.

Patriarchal roots, a lineage strong,

Clans and sub-clans, where they belong.

Five Kur stand tall, handsome and bright,

Terang, Teron, Enghee, Timung's stride,

Engti completes, a circle whole,

Each with Millim, a branched out soul.

Hendam binds close, families near,

Exogamy's rule, tradition clear.

Marriages arranged, with careful hand,

Harmony all over the Karbi land.

Lindok leads wise, with elders' decree,

Guiding the village, for all to see.

But change whispers soft, on modern breeze,

Education's touch, and shifting seas.

Yet, the core remains, a structure brand,

A Karbi tribe gentle at hand.

From ancient roots, to branches new,

Karbi culture is unique and true.

Hen- The Industrious Queen; A Karbi Folklore

In a coop by the rice paddies so green,

Lived a Hen, a most industrious queen.

From sunrise to dusk, she'd work with such care,

While her friends lazed about, with nary a share.

The Dog loved his naps, the Cat chased butterflies bright,

The bookwormish Mouse, lost in stories of night.

The Hen, with a sigh, cleaned, gathered, and fed,

Wishing her friends would lend her a tread.

One day, tired and worn, with a devious glint,

The Hen chose to rest, not a single chore to stint.

The coop fell in disarray, a cluttered domain,

As the friends woke to their folly and pain.

The Dog with no bed, the Cat with no hay,

The Mouse with no breakfast, not a single stray seed they could say.

Shamefaced they came, with apologies true,

"Please help us, dear Hen, we'll see this chore through!"

From then on, they worked, a coop spick and span,

A lesson well learnt, for every woman and man.

Together they thrived, a coop strong,

Cooperation is the key, a moral lesson learnt.

Sirwomu Praise

In Karbi Anglong, where hills connect,

A legend whispers wrecked unwrecked.

Sirwomu's tale, on voices fly,

Of a hunter's courage, down the blue  sky.

Two monstrous birds, with wings of dread,

The Womu called, a haunting spread.

They stole the crops, and cast a blight,

Fear filled the days, and darkened night.

But Sirwomu rose, with heart aflame,

A sharpened spear, to end the game.

He tracked their nests, in mountains high,

A perilous climb, under the sky.

With steady hand, and piercing gaze,

He faced the Womu, in a fiery maze.

The battle raged, with feathers strewn,

The earth did tremble, beneath the moon.

Sirwomu fought, with strength and might,

His arrows sharp, a piercing light.

The Womu fell, with deafening cries,

And freedom bloomed, in the Karbi  skies.

From then on, songs Sirwomu praise,

The hunter brave, in olden days.

A symbol strong, for all to see,

Of valour and  fearless victory.

Bagurrumba's Grace

Sunlight dappled, leaves alight,

Drums beat a rhythm, taking flight.

The Gamsa sways, a colorful dress,

Dokhona bright, a woman's bless.

Bagurumba's grace, a silent song,

Mimicking birds on a gentle storm.

The fluted Horiga fills the air,

Myths and legends, a rich history to share.

Bwisagu's joy, a harvest's call,

Thanking Bathou, who gives them all.

Bodo culture, wild and free,

Forever flowing, eternally.

~Krishna Acharya

BIO: Krishna Acharya is an aspiring writer/poet from Ri-Bhoi, Meghalaya. A post graduate in English Literature and currently employed as PGT ENGLISH at PMSHRI School, Jawahar Navodaya Vidyalaya, Gomati, Tripura. He is the founder and Chief Editor of the poetic blog The Bard and the Ballard.