In the quiet of courtyards, where the spinning wheels turn,
And the fires of passion for the motherland burn.
The Khadi is born from the cotton so white,
Woven with patience in the soft morning light.
It isn't a fabric of the machine or the mill,
But a labor of love and a weaver's deep skill.
Each thread is a story, each texture a song,
Of a heritage sturdy, and ancient, and strong.
From the days of the Mahatma, a symbol of pride,
When we cast the garments of strangers aside.
The "Charkha" kept spinning through the day and the night,
To dress us in dignity, simple and bright.
Coarse to the touch, yet so soft on the skin,
A cloth that carries the spirit within.
In the heat of the summer, it's a cooling embrace,
In the chill of the winter, a warm, cozy space.
The Mainamati soil and the Gomti's fair breeze,
Rustle through threads that are woven with ease.
From the simple white Panjabi to the elegant fold,
Khadi is a treasure more precious than gold.
No glitter is needed, no artificial shine,
The beauty of Khadi is purely divine.
A gift from Cumilla, from the loom to the heart,
The finest example of a national art.