The maids of the village walk gracefully by
With a pot on the head, and another on the thigh
They sing, as they walk, a lilting, melodious song
Whilst from a nearby church, loudly sounds the gong..
At home, mother sits and calmly grinds the grain
Without showing the least sign of fatigue or of strain
Whilst in the field, her husband cuts the hay
And nearby, her children, with whoops of delight, play.
Nearby, in a pond, the swans glide along
Heedless of the gong that goes ding-dong
Whilst the cow in its shed, peacefully chews the cud
And watches the buffalo wallowing in the mud
On the banks of a tank, some women sit on a stone
And wash their clothes, new as well as torn
A bird flaps by, and an owl hoots
The breeze blows gently, swaying the trees and the shoots.
Under a tree, a boy plays on a reed
His beloved listens, whilst the peasant, buffaloes home leads
Some children are out in the field, flying their small kites
To really astonishing and unimaginable heights.
Some antlered deer stealthily accompany the maids on their way home
Whilst some hunters with their bows in the jungles roam
The cat sits by the hearth, licking its whole body
Whilst Grandpa sits on a chair, and sips his glass of toddy
This is a picture of rural Indian life
It is a mixture of more happiness and less strife
These are the villages where the lush green fields are found
These are the villages, where misery, in drink, is not drowned.