In the emerald embrace of Cherrapunji,
where clouds linger like hesitant lovers,
Pungkhlein Falls tumbles down the cliffs,
a silver ribbon unraveling against ancient stone.

It is not just water that falls here,
but the memory of rains,
the sigh of monsoon winds,
the eternal pulse of Khasi hills.

Standing below it, you feel the world hush.
The rain is not a noise,
it is a hymn—
a deep-throated chant
that calls out to the wild soul inside of you.

Mist curls into prayers,
kissing your cheeks with the cool breath of heaven,
while rainbows—amphoral bridges—
rise and vanish in a single heartbeat.

The villagers say the fall has a spirit.
If you listen closely,
you can hear it speak:
in the rustle of bamboo groves,
in the flutter of orchids,
in the dance of dragonflies.

Pungkhlein

It speaks of a time before roads,
before footsteps,
when only the wind dared to visit.

Here, every drop is a story,
every shimmer a secret.
The fall teaches you surrender—
to let go like water,
to flow past rocks,
to carve your own valley,
and to shine even as you break.

So linger, wanderer,
at the feet of Pungkhlein.
Let its voice cleanse you,
let its spray baptize your skin.

And when you leave,
carry the song of falling water within,
so that in moments of silence
you may hear Cherrapunji calling,
through the eternal descent of Pungkhlein.