About the migrant labourer who paints the apartments
photograph by Shreya Susan Zacharia
The view, real from top did not scare him
The wind strong shook only his dry brown hair
When a vacant seat beckoned, he doubted his destiny
Everything was fine, hanging by the rope to paint.
A job, an income, which made beautiful all walls
A smile, a hope in a small house distant to reach
Doors assured to open, trains set to hoot, time runs.
A virus cannot turn upside his dreams, he is sure
He worked in the sun and in rain, set to serve his Co.
A decision to hang on to the thick rope from heaven
Kindness and care all around, he kept his word to be safe
When his brothers marched towards their ends tragic
He held on and painted his life’s colours, in increasing faith
Cyclone Amphen was spiralling homewards, killer winds rise
His folks may soon need money, trouble seems to double
He held tight to the long brush as he painted