A hollowed gourd and a single metal string,
The Ektara hums as the wandering Bauls sing.
Across the fields where the golden mustard grows,
The music of the spirit through the breeze freely flows.
The Bhatiyali echoes from the boatman's oar,
As he drifts away from the river's muddy shore.
A lonely melody for the water and the sky,
Underneath the clouds where the white herons fly.
The Bhawaiya wails with a longing so deep,
While the northern plains and the buffaloes sleep.
It tells of the heart and the miles left behind,
The ancient stories of the humble and the kind.
Then comes the Marfati, a search for the divine,
Where the earthly soul and the heavens intertwine.
No need for a stage or a spotlight's bright glare,
Just a voice in the wind and a melody in the air.
From the Gombhira masks to the Mursidi strain,
Our history is written in the rhythm of the rain.
The heartbeat of Bengal, the song of the free,
A gift from the earth to the soul of you and me.