The Migrant Workers

“What is it like migrating to another country - for work?"

I asked a middle aged, fast growing-old, worn out man.
There appeared deep wrinkles on his forehead
Deep like incurable scars
His eyes blinked
As if trying to capture the escaping moments
And he heaved a cold sigh
"What can I say?" He whispered in anguish.
"I came here to earn just enough money
To run a home with dignity
A home with my parents, brothers, sisters, my wife and our children
But I've increasingly fallen short of making that home
Let alone running it.
Having spent some 15 years here
In this foreign land
Which is still foreign to me
I would say
If there's no other way
For you to make a home
Except migrating to a foreign land
Then take with you all that's yours
The laughter and the noise of your children
The hopelessly waiting eyes of your parents
The loneliness of your wife
The slowly fading faces of your brothers and sisters
The suddenly grown old Oak tree
Under which you played with them
The mud of your rooms and walls
The vastness of your haveli
The buffaloes, the cows, the dog
The tubewell and the lush green fields
Leave nothing behind
The flesh, the bones, the blood, the sweat
If you can take with you everything that's yours
Only then you should consider living
In a foreign land
Or making a home
And running it with dignity."

©Muhammad Shafiq Haider