July 16
The season for rice transplanting has come;
The village stirs with eager cheer.
Tractors, ploughs, oxen, men and women,
Spades and hoes are gathered near.
God has showered His boundless grace;
Soft drizzles have blessed the land.
The clouds have poured just as desired—
No want of water lies at hand.
The seedlings, sown at the proper time,
Now sway in lush and emerald rows.
“It’s time to plant us in the fields,”
Their silent longing gently shows.
With flowers, incense, sacred water,
The field embankments are adored;
Then Mother Annapurna of the fields
Is worshipped with reverence to the Lord.
Every farmer, with his faithful wife,
In dhoti and sari, takes a place.
Standing in neat and measured lines,
They plant each seedling with quiet grace.
A festive people, rich in spirit,
Never let joy slip away.
Be it transplanting or harvest time,
Their songs brighten every day.
For twenty days the work goes on;
No thought is spared for midday fare.
The wages earned from honest toil
Will ease tomorrow’s every care.
On a humble towel spread nearby,
Sattu is mixed with field-fresh water;
Rolled into balls with onion beside,
It becomes the labourer’s simple supper.
Working together, hand in hand,
They strive to finish the planting right.
The little children sleep on the ridge,
Wrapped in quilts, safe in parents’ sight.
Until the task is fully done,
The fields become a festive land.
Husband and wife, as lifelong friends,
Work side by side, hand in hand.
— Vidya
Translated by chat gpt
vidus 
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