Tales of a Migrant Laboror

Shaurya Pathania

He owns no rooftop in this foreign land, struggles

with the syllables of the new language, reasons the

real meaning that he is conveyed, inhibits

his misuse but fails. He accepts the fading clothes, food,

the torn branded shoes from his old age employer.

He talks fondly of his homeland, uses some phrases

of his native tongue while eating his food.

He has never gone to any school

but his children do, he sounds proud. He eats

as if there’s no tomorrow,

laughs when someone points this out.

His stomach is almost stitched to his back, he

struggles with tobacco and alcohol,

some local contractors as well.

He knows how to build a wall and over the last decade he

has learned harvesting and managing crops as well. He

returns to his home once in a year.

He is a Lone wolf; he encounters the entire field on his

own, he is never afraid, doesn’t know how to act tired.

He works with a sickle in a wheat field, his skin is wheatish

too but when he sweats, he shines.

He’s almost golden.