Memories of the bygone past haunt me.
The clear stream of water of my village,
The illiterate shepherd herding the voiceless cattle,
The rowing of a boat in Doodh Ganga,
The betting in Hokersar wetland,
Crying on the top of our voices to irritate friends,
To walk in mud to know the smooth Earth,
The smell of mustard, the breezes of the poplar trees,
The half-shining huts, the labourers walking quickly,
The setting Sun throwing its rays in colourless houses.
The wandering singer singing the home-coming songs,
Abhileys of our locality discussing simplicity.
All is reminded to remember.
The powdered snow on the thatched roofs,
The icicles were hard as stones,
The slippery road was a nightmare,
Throwing snow balls was fun.
Listening to the advices of the elders,
Tolerating everything that ripped us apart.
Memories are to haunt.
