Our daughters go abroad to marry
Rich men speaking funny languages.
Why, they do not even know
How to grind a coconut on the sill,
Or draw water from the well.
With much love, for the little ones,
When we were babies, I remember,
Saddled on mammas sari-draped waist
Our thirst was quenched with the fresh spring;
And in that spring, would die,
The sweat and tears of dead villagers,
The plague drew them to bhagwaan each year.
Our daughters are blind,
They are a living shame
For in their heart is the Indian spirit
Caged in and imprisoned
In a culture that they do not belong to
Our daughters of Indian soil.