Amidst the sweet of laughter
of swirling Ganges,
the sweet of speech
of morning easterlies of Indian-summer,
the breeze that carries the fragrance
of autumn blossoms,
its myriad chirping feathers,
the tune of a flute and the rhythmic drum beats
that transfers to the days of nostalgia,
the mountains, the terrains, the rivers,
the air and the surrounding
all are willing to participate
as if after an eternal waiting.
The knee level water pool of Bengal’s paddy fields
and its abundance,
the impassable dark jungles
laden with fruits of wisdom.
From the openness of paradise
and the depth of ancient awareness
of Bay of Bengal,
O Holy Mother! You arise
as the sun shines
on thy forehead made of vermilion.
O high cheek boned lady!,
thy pair of eyes are so divine
like the complementation of the sun and moon.
The folds of your saree – red and white
symbolise the perpetual dance of life and death.
My Mother who is all-powerful
may always rise as morsels of food
in the hungry’s hand
and kindle the light of knowledge
wherever it’s faint.
May we see your holy presence
in every woman in home and separate
and revere them alike.