Thirteen souls
left their homes, villages
for the dreamland,
they gathered at railway stations
with dreams in their heads,
hopes in their hearts
they traveled for two nights,
dreaming of the bright days
for the rest of their lives
at last they arrived in New Delhi
where they met each other
and the scheming agents– the dream sellers
they ate, played cards,
and nursed their dreams,
while their visas were arranged,
air tickets were booked,
joyous were the dreamers
though they had different routes,
routes to the dreamland,
Europe—the land of instant riches,
the land of prosperity, the land of opportunity,
they crossed over different lands
India-Uzbekistan-Russia-Finland
Delhi-Kiev-Frankfurt and so on;
the scheming agents had assured them all
a job that would pay a thousand euros a month,
at restaurants run by their friends,
but the plans went wrong
the agents bamboozled them and fled,
leaving them in the lurch,
in a dark dungeon
in the city of white nights,
they had nothing to eat, nothing to drink,
and no money to pay the rent,
one day, the young landlady arrived
with a bottle of vodka,
knocked on their door, shouting…
‘pay me the rentttt… renttttttttt…
or my boys will tear you tonight’
scared, terrified,
they screamed for help
in the babble of drowning voices,
searched for the vanishing agents,
but help was far, night fell,
and the landlady’s boys arrived,
they drank and smoked,
and she screamed with wild joy,
then they pounced upon the dreamers
like hungry wolves,
bled them all, one by one,
their violent screams filled the dark space
but help was far,
the police came only at dawn,
their hopes were shattered
dreams unfulfilled
they could not even return home,
they had overstayed,
they had broken the law of the land,
now they awaited deportation;
a good samaritan,
a fellow countryman came forward to help,
offered them rice and bread,
offered them a place to live, to live in dignity,
a month later,
they returned home with mental scars,
hopes dashed, hearts broken, dreams shattered,
debts to be paid;
but they returned home
with steely determination,
to build their lives,
build their villages,
and to build a new India of their dreams.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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