Carnatic Chronicles Part 3 | Reflections at Srirangapatna - Invoking Chamundeshwari

Shambhavi could not believe her eyes, sitting across from her was Merina. Her friend from Bangladesh, who taught Bangla and Rabindra Sangeet. It had been a few years since they were in touch. Now, in the D.C. subway, all the love came pouring out and she called aloud, “Merina!! How are you? Haven’t heard from you for soooo long!” Colleagues had said that she was ill, and that she wanted to be left alone and all that. But then Merina had not invited Shambhavi for her daughter’s wedding either, that was when it was clear that something had changed.

There had been a shift. Merina, who previously sported a huge bindi, big enough to cover her whole forehead, was bare faced. Her long hair always neatly tied in a bun, which Shambhavi had so admired for long, was cut at the neck, as though rats had chewed at the edges. The handloom saris, the Tangails that she always sported were replaced by dull trousers in duller colours and the light on her face had died.

Shambhavi did not want to pry but her heart sank. This was not about being sick or missing one’s married daughter, this was not an empty nest syndrome, this was a makeover. To confirm her doubt, Shambhavi asked with faux innocence, “So how are your music classes going Merina?”

The silence and a wan smile answered it all.

This beautiful Bengali woman who sang like a koel, the one who had taught her Dhono Dhanya Pushpae Bhora, the one who brought gifts of terracotta jewellery and saris for her from Dhaka, the one who giggled along with her at work, inviting Shambhavi warmly into her house, feeding her freshly made beetroot chops with affection, that sari clad, bindi sporting, musical woman, was now replaced by this fake person who would barely acknowledge Shambhavi’s presence.

Other Bangladeshi colleagues, such as once good friend Mili, who were open, liberal, who mingled with all kinds, and did not judge others’ mores, stopped being so. They started doing namaz in earnest, donning hijabs, kept roza with extra diligence, were now using more and more Urdu words in their vocabulary, they changed their physical looks and attire, and took off on a newly converted zeal to bring glory to Islam. This marked change was evident from 2011-12 onwards. Their efforts to fit in with the fair Pakistani.

At work Farzana had once said in passing, “We had wonderful Hindu neighbours but they always washed their kitchens after we left, as though we were untouchables”. The predominantly white audience were horrified - having never ‘washed’ their kitchens, while Shambhavi was left seething. It is but an aspect of shaucham; her grandmother had washed kitchens diligently for far lesser infractions than a beef eating descendent of a Hindu hater or killer occupying their sacred space. Family deities are more often than not in the kitchens or adjacent areas, and they must be washed. It is what the dharmashaastras teach us. Why should we shy away from standing our ground? Even a stray onion peel let alone garlic made her ammamma wash the kitchen with renewed vigour, cursing her daughters for having no control over their taste buds. There were Ayurveda niyamas and there were jaati-kulam rules, being loyal to both or either was not a crime. Yet, when faced with a modern situation of having a bunch of Americans expressing horror at this supposed ‘discrimination’, Shambhavi had no recourse.

On the day India won the 2011 World Cup, Anjum pointed to the Badshahi Mosque and said in a painful tone, “This… this… was converted into a horses’ stable by Ranjit Singh… can you believe it…” Shambhavi looked at the red coloured domes and the commodious grounds, where men were bending over with their backsides up in the air, from the heights of Cooco’s Den in Lahore. She wanted to retort that the same had been done, and worse, to various Hindu temples in Bharat, but she was their house guest for a wedding and it would be inappropriate. She also wanted to add, Maharaja Ranjit Singh, you mean, but did not find the heart or voice for it. The openness with which they made such snarky comments irked Shambhavi. All niceties and etiquette were out of the window especially when it came to religion. Unfortunately, she did not know how to do the same to them, as politely, as charmingly. “Tipu on the other hand protected Hindu temples too and fought the British…” Anjum’s voice trailed off while Shambhavi was left in self doubt.

Meanwhile Nandini, her friend from Mysuru, kept insisting that Tipu was a benevolent king who gave land grants and gold coins to temples across his territory, even safeguarding Sringeri from the Marathas. “Why would he protect Srirangapatna if he was a tyrant, tell me? The temple is as is, untouched. If he was a zealot would he let it remain in one piece…”

All valour, courage, charity, everything was in service of Islam, she wanted to explain, but Shambhavi knew her friend was not in a mood to listen. When it came to Muslims, most Indians especially Hindus clammed up and went against all logic and reason, in fact went out of the way to appease and excuse atrocities in plain sight. A lesson taught early on by parents, teachers, and the Constitution.

Things came to a pass when a Bangladeshi colleague at the State Department, whose name Shambhavi had erased from memory, tried to convert her in the name of sawaab, their version of punya, which strangely enough was not based on universal meritorious deeds, but merit itself being gained by conversion of the ‘other’ i.e. a kafir. How easy, and what a lacklustre religion with no philosophy, Shambhavi remembered thinking to herself, horrified as she was with the blatant attempt at her very core. And not once mind you, time and again, each time Shambhavi was alone in the Teacher’s lounge with this once Hindu woman, the onslaught would start. Interestingly enough, come Holi or Diwali, this now vehemently Muslim colleague would want to dress up and take pictures with her Hindu colleagues for her Facebook friends.

To top this daily nuisance was the shocking revelation of their mentality. None of her Afghani, Bangladeshi, and Pakistani colleagues ever shopped at Indian stores, mostly owned by Hindu Patels, and they actually said so in her presence, “I only go to XYZ store, it is owned by a ‘brother’.” By now having been at the receiving end of subtle and not-so-subtle attempts at whitewashing their own brutal onslaughts while playing victim at the slightest opportunity, Shambhavi followed the auction with keen interest.

Bonhams sold the sword for 140 crores, praising its craftsmanship but mistakenly calling it Islamic art. Perhaps the experts were unaware of Wootz steel she concluded, knowing fully well that they did. Of course they knew how maths, physics, chemistry, astronomy, all known knowledge had travelled west from Bharat with each invasion. It was not new to her, everything that was noteworthy, praiseworthy from India was quickly usurped as South Asian and whatever was repugnant in their eyes was termed Hindu. She went online to read up more about this historical sword that cut off kafir heads, which was oohed and aahed at by ignorant Britishers and other buyers who assumed sudden importance at the idea of possessing a Sultan’s bedroom toy. Disgusted, she browsed around for more information, hoping for some mention at least of the rivers of blood that he had spilled in the name of Islam. She came across none. Meanwhile she saw terms like ‘Indian Art’, ‘South Asian Art’, ‘Middle Eastern Art’ as categories, but of course there was no Hindu art at the auction site. Angry at such duplicitous behaviour, in plain sight, Shambhavi decided to learn more. She jogged her memory to piece it all together - what she knew of Tipu and of his kingdom.

Her history classes had taught her about the Anglo-Mysore wars at Seringapatam, but it would be a while before she figured out that this was indeed Srirangapatna. To her teenage ears Srirangapatna sounded more like Patna which she was aware of. Was it not where Keerti had gone to study dentistry? Her best friend with whom she had started a rock band called K-2, a band with only two members and without a drummer or guitarist. Just vocals. How they sang El Condor Pasa! Soaring the skies holding onto the spread of the bird’s wings, eyeing the planet below as though a battle to be won.

I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet
Yes, I would
If I only could
I surely would

Taking the would, could, should, so high the way only teenagers can, full throttle, with complete passion and belief in the world and future. Keerti’s brother Animish was still at the National Defence Academy and would visit home with a cartload of cassette tapes of English songs. And would be horrified that his sister and her friends were so ignorant of the musical contributions of Simon and Garfunkel or the Beatles. He took it upon himself to educate them, the best he could.

Her own loyalty lay in what was sung in Agastyaland. But bands did not mouth tunga teeradi ninta suyativara with the strum of the guitar strings. Keerti did speak some Kannada, being from Belgaum, but she had insisted that those were kutcheris. Bands stood and swayed while devaranamas had to be sung sitting down, with eyes closed. Was that the only difference? No, no. One was about a bird Candor, the other about a yati Raghavendra. One made you a rebel, the other made you a bhakta. Thus was caught Shambhavi between the parvata K-2 and the nadi Tungabhadra. And the land in the middle called Bharata.

ತುಂಗಾತೀರದಿ ನಿಂತ ಸುಯತಿವರನ್ಯಾರೆ ಪೇಳಮ್ಮ
ಕೀರ್ತನಕಾರರು : ಜನಾರ್ದನ ವಿಠಲದಾಸರು
ತುಂಗಾತೀರದಿ ನಿಂತ ಸುಯತಿವರನ್ಯಾರೆ ಪೇಳಮ್ಮ ||ಪ||
ಸಂಗೀತಪ್ರಿಯ ಮಂಗಳ ಸುಗಣತರಂಗ ಮುನಿಕುಲೋತ್ತುಂಗ ಕಣಮ್ಮ ||ಅ.ಪ||

ಚೆಲುವ ಸುಮುಖ ಫಣೆಯಲ್ಲಿ ತಿಲಕ ನಾಮಗಳು ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ಜಲಜಮಣಿಯ ಕೊರಳಲ್ಲಿ ತುಳಸಿಮಾಲೆಗಳು ಪೇಳಮ್ಮ
ಸುಲಲಿತ ಕಮಂಡಲು ದಂಡವನೆ ಧರಿಸಿಹನೆ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ಕ್ಷುಲ್ಲ ಹಿರಣ್ಯಕನಲ್ಲಿ ಜನಿಸಿದ ಪ್ರಹ್ಲಾದನು ತಾನಿಲ್ಲಿಹನಮ್ಮ ||೧||

ಸುಂದರ ಚರಣಾರವಿಂದಕೆ ಭಕುತಿಯಲಿಂದ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ವಂದಿಸಿ ಸ್ತುತಿಸುವ ಭೂಸುರವೃಂದ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ಚಂದದಲ೦ಕೃತಿಯಿಂದ ಶೋಭಿಸುವಾನಂದ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ಹಿಂದೆ ವ್ಯಾಸಮುನಿಯೆಂದೆನಿಸಿದ ಕರ್ಮಂದಿಗಳರಸಘದಿಂದ ರಹಿತನೆ ||೨||

ಅಭಿನವ ಜನಾರ್ಧನ ವಿಠಲನ ಧ್ಯಾನಿಸುವ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ಅಭಿವಂದಿಸಿದವರಿಗೆ ಅಖಿಲಾರ್ಥವ ಸಲ್ಲಿಸುವ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ನಭಮಣಿಯಂದದಿ ವಿವಿಧದಿ ಶೋಭಿಸುವ ನೋಡಮ್ಮ
ಶುಭಗುಣಗಣನಿಧಿ ರಾಘವೇಂದ್ರ ಗುರು ಅಬುಜಭವಾಂಡದಿ ಪ್ರಬಲ ಕಾಣಮ್ಮ ||೩||

The other place Shambhavi had confused Srirangapatna with was Srirangam. In Telugu pattanam meant a city or an urban space. So perhaps Srirangam was a pattanam too and officially called Srirangapatna? Among the LPs that her father had bought in their childhood was Sri Venkatesa Suprabhatam, and M.S. Amma’s rangapuravihara which played Diskhitar’s kriti often enough for her to associate Srirangam with Ranganatha and Ranganayaki.

pallavi: O resident of the town called Ranga! Victory to you who incarnated as Rama, the famed owner of the bow Kodanda! Brave scion of the Raghu clan!

anupallavi: Father of Cupid! One who is as swift as the King of Deers in running to the aid of the Gods to remove their sufferings! Giver of boons! Resident in the heart of Lakshmi! Scarlet hued one! One with Garuda as his mount! Unsurpassed in compassion! Ever present in good company!

caraNam: O Moon to the Ocean like the Sun clan! Venerated lotus faced Rama, who was crowned as King! One whose feet are like lotus! Vanquisher of Cupid in beauty! Rama, of the clan of Raghu! Bridegroom of Sita who is on the left! Recliner on Sesha the great serpent! Delight of devotees! One with the Sun and Moon as two eyes! Soft spoken one! One with a forehead akin to an unblemished mirror! Destroyer of the sufferings of Sages! Govinda! Venkataramana! Mukunda! Sankarshana! Primordial root! Joy to Subrahmanya, the preceptor of Siva!

Both Srirangam and Srirangapatna were by the banks of the holy Kaveri, and both boasted of large temple complexes where Ranganatha made his home with Ranganayaki, it was no wonder that her head had confused one with the other. Kamal’s Mahanadhi reinforced her confusion. An intense and heart wrenching film that spoke of societal realities, heretofore hidden from her in her secluded life, the only respite in the film was the exquisite music that Illayaraja had composed. The echoes of sri ranga ranganathanin rang in her ears long after the 90s.

ஸ்ரீரங்க ரங்க நாதனின் பாதம்
வந்தனம் செய்யடி……
ஸ்ரீ தேவி ரங்க நாயகி நாமம்
சந்ததம் சொல்லடி……
இன்பம் பொங்கும்
தென் கங்கை நீராடி
மஞ்சள் குங்குமம் மங்கை நீ சூடி

The reality of Srirangapatna continued to evade her, and her assumption that both Srirangam and Srirangapatna were one and the same continued for a few more years. It was only in the early 2000s that Shambhavi finally figured out the fallacy of her logic. She had bought a chart of all the 108 divya desams for her friend. This had all the names and photos of the important kshetras for a vaishnava. And while browsing through she was surprised to see that there was a Srirangam and also a Srirangapatnam listed among the 108 of them! What an idiot she had been to assume both were the same.

With this new found knowledge came the desire to have darshan at both these pilgrimage spots. Srirangam was easy enough with friends in Trichy and Kumbakonam, it did not take long to make her sankalpa become a reality. Srirangapatna on the other hand took a while. Shambhavi was not destined for darshan here until two decades later. By which time she had also learnt a lot more about the Wodeyars and the marauder of Malabar.

Shambhavi’s initial knowledge of Tipu was from the one Amar Chitra Katha comic book that was gifted to her by a friend. On request. Most kids her age wanted only ACKs as birthday presents. There was a competition among them; who would collect the most by the year end. Every edition made a difference, and Tipu had made an entry at the right time. In her naive eyes anyone who fought the British was a good person, a patriotic human. Tipu fought the British = Good Man. QED. Tipu was brave, Tipu was generous, he donated gold to Sharada at Sringeri, Tipu wanted to unite Indians against the British, Tipu was betrayed. These facts she had gleaned from her early readings. Not just that but a few years later Sanjay and Akbar Khan’s serial on Doordarshan, The Sword of Tipu Sultan based on Bhagwan Gidwani’s book continued to reiterate this stereotype. Looking back, she can read in her mind’s eye the disclaimer at the beginning of the series clearly; ‘… it does not deal with Tipu’s controversial role in Coorg and Kerala…’, but those were the days of bhaichara, of taking everything at face value, of not contesting what was spoon fed by the press, peers, or politicians.

So when she heard that Tipu was worse than Aurangzeb in how he treated Hindus, and all the other non-Muslims during his reign, she decided to read up more on him. It was tough to reverse one’s foregone conclusions and assumptions. To unseat a childhood hero from his pedestal was not simple. But with historical records of forced conversions, cruel persecution, rapes, plunder of temples, of religious bigotry and bias against kafirs; the fanatical and jihadi mindset, all came to the fore. To invite Zaman Shah Durrani to invade India to crush the Hindu rebels is not a sign of a patriot! To wipe out the Melukote Mandyam Iyengars completely on naraka chaturdashi is not a sign of a humane ruler.

It was not how he helped the Sringeri peetham when they faced the ire of the Marathas. It was not about the hundred plus temples that received his largesse, grants in the form of gold and silver. It was not a simple case of he-did-not-attack-Ranganathaswamy-temple-at Srirangapatna-so-he-must-be-good. It was not just the ‘Tiger’ of Mysore fending off the combined forces of the British, the Marathas, the Nizam and also the Kingdom of Travancore. The Nedumkotta Nairs will tell us a very different story. It was also about what happened to the Wodeyars. How Tipu’s father Hyder Ali came to be the most powerful Sultan of his times. It is necessary to know the backstory to fully comprehend the current times. Historical figures are always much more complex in hindsight.

… Frequent wars with the Marathas had left the Mysore Empire on the verge of bankruptcy. Tipu’s father Hyder Ali’s management in financial aspects raised his influence in the court..

… If Tipu had tried to destroy the famous temples in his kingdom, he would have incurred the wrath of the citizens of the kingdom, who would have obviously rebelled against him. Moreover, Mysore as it is had many enemies to contend with…

Life is not so straightforward. It is downright confusing. Knowing the past as it happened and without embellishments definitely eases the burden. But one must be ready. It took all of Shambhavi’s years of experiences with various friends, acquaintances, and colleagues, to make her realize the Truth of Tipu.

She would have preferred to walk up the hill and have darshan but her friends were in a rush to show her the whole of Mysuru and more in the two days they had with her. Who was she to protest? Once you are a guest and the hosts are taking care of you, you must surrender, this is what amma had taught her. We do not voice our likes and dislikes, as they are being gracious in hosting and we must not inconvenience them. This advice backfired sometimes if the hosts were of a different ideology or mindset and said things that upset you. As per amma, one had to grin and bear it, that is all. To be polite and agreeable came above all personal stands - political or otherwise. Without manners, there is no culture or civilization, she said. Although Shambhavi did not completely agree with this line of thought, she did appreciate the value of manners and good speech in day-to-day living. Had Bhartrhari not said the same many moons ago on how to win friends and influence people? She had definitely been fortunate to have had the right advice.

केयूराणि न भूषयन्ति पुरुषं
हारा न चन्द्रोज्ज्वला
न स्नानं न विलेपनं न कसुमं
नालङ्कृता मूर्धजाः
वाण्येका समलङ्करोति पुरुषं
या संस्कृता धार्यते
क्षीयन्ते खलु भूषणानि सततं
वाग्भूषणम् भूषणम्

They were now headed to Chamunda Hills, to offer obeisance to the devi there, it was one of the shakti peethas. Shambhavi would be visiting for the first time and had lots of expectations. She had definitely wanted to climb up on foot but… perhaps another opportunity would present itself. Not only was this goddess the kuladevi of the Wodeyars but she was also her namesake. Amma always called Shambhavi - Chandi or Chamunda - whenever her daughter showed signs of excessive or righteous anger. As soon as they arrived on top, eager to make contact with the goddess, she rushed into the pilgrim line hopping on one foot due to the burning stone slabs under her feet, despite the wintry sun. He was bright, that one, even in December, showing off his heat. Although the rest of the bhaktas seemed to enjoy this hot respite, as Mysuru tends to get cold in winter.

Devi Chamundeshwari was not ferocious at all. She was most kind and welcoming! What an anti-climax. Even before she could overcome her surprise and digest this fact, the large eager crowds pushed her outside the sanctum and into the light.

It was while doing the pradakshina of the temple premises, just before collecting prasada that Shambhavi spotted the utsava murti of devi and she stood transfixed. Now, this here was a beauty. Indoors, maa was lovely, yes, but had not moved her much, given her own shock. But now….now she felt a tug in her heart, a smile formed in her mouth involuntarily and her heart sang. Such power and beauty can stir even a rock to sing. But what came to her mind was not a lyric of the goddess in battle but that of the goddess in service of her lord and of her people. The one who showered wealth, health, prosperity, and contentment on her devotees. This is strange thought Shambhavi, why am I thinking of this song now? Why is Lakshmi pervading my being while I stand in front of Chamundeshwari?

With closed eyes she sang, hearing her own hum in her head. This was what all the women sang for Varamahalakshmi vratam in the Telugu lands, in Kannada. There was a Telugu version also of this, same tune too. bhaagyaada lakshmi baramma… nammama… nee… saubhaagyaada lakshmi baarammaaa…

Shambhavi could not contain herself any longer, so she asked her friends if they could take her to any Lakshmi temple since they were done with darshan here. She told them that the devi had asked her to do so, which was true, Chamunda had clearly put the idea of Lakshmi in her heart. Where can we go she asked, assuming there must be a neighbourhood Lakshmi temple for sure in Gokulam or nearabouts. But her friends had other plans. They had already decided that Shambhavi must see Srirangapatna, how can she come all the way from Bhagyanagara and not go to visit Ranganayaki? That would be shameful.

What would the devi devatas say? That they were poor hosts, tcha tcha, that was unforgivable. They had filled their car tank in the morning and now she was being whisked off to the pride of pancharanga kshetras, the adi ranga.

The roads are wide and welcoming, and they reach sooner than expected. It is all chatter and gossip on the way; about this, that, and the other. Ahead of the parking lot rises a gopuram high and proud. Undefeated. Shambhavi and her friends enter in quick succession, as it is almost 5.00 pm and the temple will close soon. Rush, says a boy selling religious trinkets just outside the main mandapa. Shambhavi looks at the huge temple complex in pain; now dilapidated, hardly maintained, the walls mute, speaking of unsung valour of times bygone. Many shrines around the main garbha griha are locked up for lack of resources or sheer callousness, as are their residents, eagerly and patiently awaiting their release.

When might that be!

There is a Krishna here, he looks at Shambhavi with twinkling eyes: see I am incarcerated once more, he seems to say to her. Come sit by my side and sing me a song. So she goes and looks at him eagerly. Would he unpack all the mysteries of life for her? …yaadava nee baa yadukula nandana madhava madhusoodana baro… Was Tipu mesmerized by you too, is that why he did not hurt you, come on tell me the secret. A short walk to the right from him was the splendorous Ranganayaki. Who in his right mind could even approach her without awe in his heart… he had saved the stone vigrahas here, yet the same man did not hesitate to rape, convert and kill real women, real men, real children… all in the name of his belief, with that sword… that same one that Bonhams was praising sky high in its auction.

And there were celebrations of Tipu Jayanti across the state - for what? For being a mass murderer of kafirs. Such are the times… such are the times… Shambhavi was lost in thought rueing the unbearable situation the country was in. Her friends called to her from afar, waving, pointing to the parking lot. Let me go Ranga, I will be back to see you at leisure.

“Should we drive to the banks?”, they asked her. Needing peace and quiet from her disturbed mind, she acquiesced. Kaveri was gurgling aplenty and gently, welcoming and sweet. Wherever the river steps foot, people pray to her and seek her blessings. Pouring her holy waters on head and hair, Shambhavi sat on some dry rocks by her side and watched her flow by.

Scary thoughts arose once again despite the tranquillity.

This land had been recaptured from the mlecchas, but Bengal was suffering. Even while she witnessed this calmness here by the river, some Hindu was being butchered just for being a sanatani. She remembered the Bangla song that she had hummed with her once-upon-a-time-friend Merina, with dismay. If people could forget and let go so easily the culture of their land and ancestors, what would replace that vacuum? What can replace it, if at all. Can the heart stop singing? Can the feet stop prancing? Can a religion bent on smothering the other survive its own hate?

While Shambhavi saw news after news of dead bodies showing up on lake beds and protestors gearing up for the final fight, all her prayers to Ranga were for the protection of Hindus in Bangladesh. She hoped fervently that she would never have to witness a partition, she wished for this land to remain what it was, Bharata, the land of Rishis who brought the light of knowledge to the world.

She put off her phone and disconnected from the world, with the fervent hope that the problem would go away. Shambhavi knew she was fooling herself, it was time to invoke Ranga’s sister. Chandi, Chamunda, Durga. It was time to arise from slumber.

ধনধান্য পুষ্প ভরা আমাদের এই বসুন্ধরা
তাহার মাঝে আছে দেশ এক সকল দেশের সেরা
ও সে স্বপ্ন দিয়ে তৈরি সে দেশ স্মৃতি দিয়ে ঘেরা
এমন দেশটি কোথাও খুঁজে পাবে নাকো তুমি
ও সে সকল দেশের রাণী সে যে আমার জন্মভূমি
সে যে আমার জন্মভূমি, সে যে আমার জন্মভূমি।
চন্দ্র সূর্য গ্রহতারা,
কোথায় উজল এমন ধারা
কোথায় এমন খেলে তড়িৎ এমন কালো মেঘে
তার পাখির ডাকে ঘুমিয়ে উঠি পাখির ডাকে জেগে।
এত স্নিগ্ধ নদী কাহার,
কোথায় এমন ধুম্র পাহাড়
কোথায় এমন হরিত ক্ষেত্র আকাশ তলে মেশে
এমন ধানের উপর ঢেউ খেলে যায়
বাতাস কাহার দেশে।
পুষ্পে পুষ্পে ভরা শাখি কুঞ্জে কুঞ্জে গাহে পাখি
গুঞ্জরিয়া আসে অলি পুঞ্জে পুঞ্জে ধেয়ে
তারা ফুলের ওপর ঘুমিয়ে পড়ে ফুলের মধু খেয়ে।
ভায়ের মায়ের এত স্নেহ,
কোথায় গেলে পাবে কেহ
ওমা তোমার চরণ দুটি বক্ষে আমার ধরি
আমার এই দেশেতে জন্ম যেন এই দেশেতে মরি।