After a hectic schedule of a day under the scorching sun—

The cattle; the family matters; and caring the paddy fields all alone.

Murmured the village lad, ‘I need little rest after the moth hour.

It may be on the porch or veranda or in the backyard or somewhere.’

A nap or may be slumber in painful summer nights!

But alas, the sound of dialogues and music and fights!

Irresistible echoes of rehearsal!

The voice of kings and knights; queens and ministers; or the fool

The prompting and argument—‘Is it climax or reversal?’

Songs of the brave; prayers and prologues— all coarse

And may be hoarse ….but for that no remorse

Because emotion flooded; bewitching belongingness;

After all, the village drama is to be staged.

The power of Warren Hastings or vigorous Bhima;

Diplomat Nārada or Rāvan, the self-conceited;

Or with the full spirit of a despotic king—

‘Ha ha ha….nefarious, you’ll be hanged to death singing.’

May be a romantic duet of the rustic youth;

Or a cozy queen; a tricky minister or a brave patriot—all couth,

For every reason, the drama is to be staged better—

Full-blooded, and successful as a character.

No night or midnight; no plight or respite,

The drama is to be staged in the village field outright.

On the annual arrival of mother earth- the saviour of the earthly built.

‘I must go and do myself up because the village drama is to be full of spirit.’

                                                                                                       ~Dr. Pratap Kumar Dash

                                                                                                               Bhubaneswar, India