Nirupam uncle, wherever he goes

Wears his spectacles on his nose

Carries a stick with a silver band

And a silver box in the other hand.

Nirupam uncle is tall and thin

His eye is as bright as a new-made pin.

His dhoti is white and his waistcoat is brown,

His shoes are the shiniest in the town.

He comes to our house when he's had his lunch

And usually brings me a sweet to munch.

He sits himself down in the shade of a tree

And always leaves a space for me.

And then he starts! The stories he tells

Are better than music or drums or bells;

They ring in my head the whole night long.

A story by uncle is just like a song.

He tells me about the days of old,

Of kings and robbers and stolen gold,

Of ships that sail the sea so blue,

Of  Rama and Sita and Lakshman, too.

There are stories of goblins, and owls wise,

And of how poor Kannapan lost his eyes;

Of fairies, and Rakshasas huge and tall;

But sitting near uncle I don't mind at all.

'I'll see you tomorrow,' he always cries,

And smiles again with his twinkling eyes.

For Nirupam uncle, wherever he goes.

Wears his spectacles on his nose.

And when the last story is finished and done.

And the courtyard is yellow with the sitting sun,

He smiles and says, 'Goodbye, my boy!'

And waves his stick and laughs with joy.