Winters night falls gently,
As a veil across the vale,
The full yellow moon,
Bathes the Kodagu ‘bayle’,
The fragrance of ripe paddy,
Wafts across the golden fields,
The heady air of anticipation,
Awaits a harvest of the yield.
A yield bathed in slush and sweat,
Of the farmer’s land and toil,
Nurtured by the mother Kaveri,
In ‘pomalle’ Kodagu’s fertile soil.
Farmers all when seed be sown,
Sons and daughters homegrown.
Warriors all to defend their own,
When the need be known.
Now clad in reverence and pride,
They gather by their fields,
With little lamps to dispel the darkness,
And their little sickles to wield.
At the prescribed sacred muhurtham,
Gunshots are fired into the skies,
Sickles fall to slice the crop,
To the “poli,poli deva” cries.
The swaying stalks thick with grain,
Are gathered by the grateful,
Then offered with thanks to ancestors and Gods.
For their blessings all so bountiful.
As winter’s morning dawns again.
Little stalks of new rice tell the story,
Of another year gone into history,
And another glorious Puthari.
Codanda Ravin Chengappa, Puthari 2025.
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