There, to the west of the eastern sea,
Embraced by a drifted saltpan necklace,
Where the oysters sweat out nacres of pearls,
Clustered in their mantles and shells.
A temple, a center and every life around it nearby,
An archaic fold of a southern Indian city,
Waves and knaves sing in harmony,
As the land and the sea strive for unity.
This is Tuticorin, the city that bedded my birth,
This is Tuticorin, a paradise for marine merchants out here in the Dravidian land.
Hot and humid, sunny and sultry, the weather is,
Warm and welcome, hearty and healthy, the people are
Rough and rowdy, crude and crass, on their irksome days
Some make a living and some make a better living.
This is Tuticorin, where salt is in its breath and sweat,
This is Tuticorin, where a drop of blood is worth a treat.