September is the cruellest month
No beatings of drums for Ma
No scent of Shiuli
No Kaash flowers sway in glee, babu,
Here in my village Durgapur
We are biri workers
Work from sunrise to sundown
And stitch thousand biris
And earn Rs 152 each
And make feast under moon
Ma Ganga is merciless in monsoon
It sports and kills us
Its holy water is red with our fresh blood
It makes us refugees in our own land
We don’t know how to spell bha -wani -pore
We do and die at Koltala