My Village

The hamlet where I was born had been a little village By the side of the river Which used to dry in the summer And which used to overflow in the rainy days for a few days When the days full of shower and downpour. Away from the road, it was near about two kilometres And taking to the raw alley, We used to reach the village By the evening descending and darkening Or the summer noon hot and perspiring. A thorp of a few homes, mud-built and straw-thatched, With no books, nothing to do, Without any post-office, shop or electricity, The village used to roll in its days. The simple folks used to live by simply, Starting with the daybreak, Someone bathing in the river, Someone readying for a worship Of the household deity. The housewives going to the river to fill in the pitcher With water, Filtering it through the sandy surface By holing in and cleaning the small source And filtering the sands With a piece of cloth on the pitcher. People used to go one house to another As for bringing the red embers, Fire hidden in the ashes As for to fan it and burn the hearth At daybreak. To get the breakfast was a problem, They used to take the stale food of the night-time, Actually, late at midday, most probably by 3 p.m., They used to finish their midday meal. Village-life had been indeed very slow, The bullock-cart as the source of conveyance Moving out from one village to another, People going on foot, As a few had a bicycles. To be with a radio set is to be with people In your courtyard, People sitting around at eve And hearing the radio, Passing the night. Without the torchlight and the slippers, People moving out in the dark, Taking the name of the snake-god As he will save, Sleeping on the muddy floor. During the cold winter, They used to put on straw as for to warm up, By the fire-side they used to sit and pass by, Warming with By putting a fire pot under the string cot. With nothing to read, Neither with sufficient light or lamp, They just pass on their days in full darkness, Just with one short-time burning earthen lamp, Burning with mustard oil. The temples made of mud, Vermillioned or frescoed, Had been the spots of their faith, No school had been therein And even if it had been, it used to run Under the shady trees. The small children half-clothed, half-fed, With the clumsy shorts slipping Or shirts torn and buttonless, Used to move towards Holding the shorts and the knapsack to sit on.