


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 .



