Jayshree Misra Tripathi is a writer and former educationist. She received her Master of Arts Degree in English (Delhi University 1978), then a PG Diploma in Human Rights Law, (National Law School of India University, Bengaluru ,2001, Distance Education Programme). Having lived in diverse cultures with her late husband, a former career diplomat in the Indian Foreign Service, her short fiction and narrative verse dwell upon journeys through the diaspora, highlighting women’s voices and cross-cultural conversations. She curated an anthology of essays, The Other Side of Diplomacy (Westland Books, 2025). A recent book of poetry is Morning Twilight, (Speaking Tiger Books, 2026).

Dear Reader on Social Media

Will you read my story today?
or avert your gaze, skip words
composed by an unfamiliar name
in your timeline? Easier to like
the feted ones here, matured
in language, art, defined sales,
the close-knit literary circles?
Yes, one may even notice your heart,
say ‘thank you’ with an emoji
or even be humbled by your reading.
Do not fret, I do the same!
Quod sid Vida.
Why am I quoting a Latin phrase?
Apt nuances, read before.
…la vida loca too, in Espanol-
but yes, along those lines… Maya.
Do you prefer lived experiences?
or verse written under the influence
of ‘honeydew’?
Coleridge’s immortal Kubla Khan.
I have truly lived my words,
crossed the seven seas, travelled
to antique lands, paced the spaces
I dwelled in. Therefore, the tales
I weave, the images I conjure
remain fathomable.

In Retrospect ~ The Fashion Show at The Grand Hotel

Our vain egos succumb to
invitations for raising funds,
dining at luxurious hotels,
dressed in haute couture.
The guests smile for our smiles,
as we glide languidly on stage
to soft music, the sensual overtones
unmistakable. Almost sixty, I do feel silly
dressed as an Indian bride in gold
and red brocade, my hair styled,
with golden necklaces that weigh me down.
Then as I turn to walk off stage,

I catch his cynical smile, mocking.
As the music reaches a crescendo,
I flick and stretch a long strand of hair, curled
with a taut finger, ensuring stares
and sway my hips to the laughter.
Been there. Done that. Without a care!

I Wonder….

What will the person who finds me first
think, as I lie there on the ground,
in my favourite pink pyjamas, or a T shirt,
my hair an untidy mess, the braid undone?
Will the first arrival glance at me
or at the scribbles on my yellow note-pad?
Will the next one come with the ambulance
and have to declare me dead?
There I was reading in bed, propped up by
fluffy pillows, I yearned for some jasmine tea.
Was the chest pain the prelude to a heart attack?