In my village Baruipur,
I had a tamarind tree.
Perhaps not, but its shade
surely belonged to me.

A little monkey lived on it,
a rather smart fella,
I taught him on rainy days
to sit under an umbrella.

The washer-man's donkey, the farmer's ox,
fishes in the pond.
I named them all and, I could swear,
of me they were fond.

All the roads in all directions, far as I could see,
had been there, I knew well, just to beckon me.
The rail-bridge was reserved for me every afternoon,
to bid the setting sun goodbye and welcome the moon.

That was many a year ago.
The pond, my pets, the tree,
I pray, are still the same today,
and belong to a boy like me.


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