Badaldevi Chamling

Touch the soil;

It speaks to you

Stand by the terrace;

It pats on your shoulder

Step into the courtyard;

It assumes the aura of heaven

The porch spreads corn-husk cushions and beseeches you to have a sound rest;

The door inquires if you’re thirsty and offers a tumbler of fresh water;

The oven

asks about your well-being

and invites you for a bowl of boiled horse gram in salt,

This is the village way of hospitality!

People in the city, as I have heard, hardly speak to each other.

Make a visit to my village

All the above  shall receive you with intimacy!

The well quenches all your thrust — free of cost

And the orchard stuffs your basket to its brim.

Not satiated yet?

Fondle the alleyway shrubs

And feel the touch of belongingness.

The village lacks a silo of pelf, granted

It has no curtains to screen people in the crowd

No neighbors that disappear in crisis

No friends that go silent when needed

And no relatives that come wrapped in hypocrisy to attend feasts.

Make a visit to my village

That has hands that salute you with tears of joy

That has warmth that binds you with tears of love

A different sun shines in my village

Tantalizing is its warmth

The moon and the sky-roof are different too

The roof can accommodate everything;

It’s not like electric lights that flicker in the urban sky

That disappear in no time;

It’s like the Polestar

Whose glitter is eternal.

Firethorn combs your tangled tresses

Field weeds cure you of pneumonia

Go, scratch the root-soil for white figs

They calm the flames in your heart.

Enter a lane in the countryside

And unfold the pent-up agonies within

Perhaps you have wandered a lot

Across sands and shores

Or into strangers’ kitchen gardens

Perhaps unintelligible ditties pricked your heart

And perhaps you knelt down in the plains

Maybe you also bumped against the mountains, did you?

If you have been aching

Please, make a visit to my village

You shall sure find a mother’s lap .