Freeform: Migrant Workers
| October 16, 2007 | Posted by caroline under freeform, on identity, on indian roots, storytelling, travels, Uncategorized |
it’s been some time since i’ve felt the urge to rip out a pen and paper in public.
—-
I remember the streets
Throngs of men
Who hadn’t seen their wives in years
I remember the wooden stairs
Women with the same stained and crooked teeth
Scraping away at my heels
Roughened by poolside tiles
One told me of her children
Attempted to show me a photo
They were living with her parents in Goa
I was in a hurry, so I said goodbye to my sister
And as the driver took me home
I tossed my head out the window
While blasts of warm wind rushed past my face
I took it all in, the desert and the side shops
I had my camera, and I saw it all
I had my camera, and I could tell how it felt
To sit with “the poor”
To listen to “their problems”
I was there for him
As he drove me home
I was there for her
As she waxed the nuisance from my arms
I was paying their bills
As they were lessening my woes
If only it would feel good.
If only I liked it as much as he did
Along with the tan and bargaining in the markets
I could take my pictures home
And smile, tell stories of this world
But I can’t
I burn the photos
So I can forget.
