There is a place on this earth—the most beautiful and melancholic: Where green shores are filled with endless Madhukupigrass; Where the trees are named: Jackfruit, Ashwattha, Banyan, Jarul, and Hizzool; Where the sun rises in the morning clouds, glowing like a Nata fruit; Where the goddess Baruni dwells in the heart of the Ganges-Sagar—there, Varuna, Pours restless waters into the Karnaphuli, Dhaleshwari, Padma, and Jalangi; There, the white kite is restless in the breeze like a forest of betel leaves, There, the barn owl is faint and young, like the scent of ripening grain. There, lemon branches lean down toward the grass in the dark; The Sudarshan beetle flies home in the dark evening breeze; There, a yellow sari clings to the body of a beautiful woman— Her name is Shankhamala: by the rivers and grasses of this vast world You will find her no more; the goddess Vishalakshi had granted her a boon, And so she was born amidst the blue grass and paddy of Bengal.
