Home is Where the Heart is! – II

Dr. Roopali tells us about the joy of migrant labourers returning home, from the Middle East, after many years. They felt free. An exclusive for Different Truths.

At the Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum) railway station in God’s Own Country, where the coconut trees sway in delight, hurried trains arrive and speedily leave with passengers. 

You can spot many folks carrying rope tied cloth bundles or a silvery suitcase and a colourful prayer mat or reed chatai mats on their heads. These are workers returning home on leave from Middle East countries. They are rushing to their towns and villages – Palghat, Adichanallur, Adoor, Kozhikode, Kottayam…you name it!

You feel a tense anticipation. The thought of home sweet home. Taxi loads straight from the airport to the train station. 

Kerala’s Landscape

Kerala’s lush green landscape, its waterways and lagoons teeming with fish draw droves of tourists. The white foamed Arabian Sea broods as the waves slowly lap the long shoreline as the “Chinese Nets” – fishing nets wait patiently for the day’s catch.

Our travellers have left the sterile undulating desert sand dunes far behind, simply a mirage now. But soon they will have to return. Until then, though, they will savour  achappam, kozhukkatta and kuzhalappam. Iddupu and Ishtu, ghee roast and Avial, Idiyappam and curry. The famed Erachi varutharacha curry and Allepy Fish Curry on a dastarkhan with the family on one big plate.  

At Abu Dhabi, I disembarked to board the connecting Emirates flight to Delhi. The airport glittered with gold and smelled of perfume, chocolates and pistachios.  I had an hour to wander about, and that is just what I did. My purse jangled with coins from all my travels. I had no idea how much money clinked about with me.

Bagful of Nuts

The shop attendants were from our very own Kerala. At the perfume shops there were pretty girls from the Philippines. I clutched my jangly purse and headed for a Kerala brother. The narrow shop was spilling over with dry fruit. “Here take all this and shop for me,” I said. He gladly obliged! Soon, I had a bagful of nuts and dry fruit, and a huff puff breathless cabin bag. I needed help. So, I asked a young man in the boarding queue.

It looked like it was going to be an Indians only flight. Although, I did spy a few blonde heads here and there. The same helpful young man had a seat next to mine. We sat in shy silence. He was uncomfortable with a young woman next to him. 

It was a new experience. The Virgin Atlantic flight from the United States to Abu Dhabi had carried a predominantly white clientele. The cabin crew and all the staff had been extra polite. Friendly, and full of smiles. On this second flight, from Abu Dhabi to Delhi, everything changed. Hospitality was beginning to look suspiciously like hostility.

Indian Workers

Aside from me and the blonde heads, the flight was full of Indian workers from various parts of the Middle East. 

This time they were mostly from North India, Punjab, and Uttar Pradesh. The flight attendants were rough in their behaviour and the passengers hardly spoke any English at all. So, their repeated requests for liquor and salty snacks went unheeded. No flight attendant was found asking, “Would you like to try some French wine?”

Immigration forms and landing cards appeared mid-flight and began to cause deep consternation. We had to complete immigration procedures and enter passport details before landing. Harjinder Singh, my co-passenger looked visibly nervous. I offered to explain. He requested me to complete the forms for him. He did not read or write English.

Home Coming

The forms broke the ices and his personal details surprised me. He was returning home to India for the first time in nine years.  He was a plumber by profession. Hussainiwala his village in Punjab was not too far from the India-Pakistan border.  

He had left behind his ageing grandparents, his parents, a young high school going brother and an unmarried sister. Mounting debts and land problems had compelled him to leave his village and family to earn a living far, far away.  For many others too, this was an exile. The job agent had shown them glimpses of heaven and left them to rot in hell. His employer in the Middle East had confiscated his passport. He lived in a slum-like home, cramped in with crowds of workers like him. Each month, he sent his earnings home to his family.  

Upon arrival in Delhi, he said he would take a taxi from the airport to his village in Panjab. It would take another six hours by road. It had been nine years of yearning. In the lonely sand filled desert he had not forgotten the swaying yellow mustard fields, the ripened golden wheat and the miles and miles of sunflowers. 

A Wood Fire

He talked in a low tone of the banks of the Sutlej River and the songs of the 18th century Sufi singer Bulle Shah. His mother would slow cook on a wood fire the delicious sarson da saag. His mouth watered for the sugar cane juice and the brown lumps of jaggery. The pucca brick house with a water tap will be a reality now. 

As we chatted, slowly, thoughtfully, I found dozens of forms being pushed at me. Within minutes, I was the official form filler for the rest of the flight. Painters, plumbers, drivers, janitors, carpenters, electricians, door keepers, lift operators. The rich and the famous sheikhs and expats needed them. They were important to keep the structural fantasies alive. And yet, they lived in squalor, unwanted, and always watched by the police. 

Somebody went to the in-flight lavatory and lit up a cigarette. Instantly there was mayhem. Alarms set off and the by now hysterical cabin crew began banging on the toilet door. The passenger came out sheepishly in a cloud of smoke with the cabin crew threatening to have him arrested. 

Fellow Countrymen

The rest of the journey went smoothly. Harjinder Singh dozed after the gin and tonic. I quietly filled one form after another. Dutybound to my fellow countrymen. They were in the age group 24 to 40. Their stories were astonishing. Most of them were returning home after at least seven years!

We ate the awful pottage of indifferent rudely served chhole chawal and achaar.  The buzz had quietened down. The liquor had made everybody sleepy. A loud bark jolted me awake. The flight attendant was asking us all to belt up. Delhi’s airport lights were twinkling brightly. Excitement was mounting. People were leaning over each other to look out through the windows.

Suddenly, it seemed like everybody was standing up and bringing down their cabin baggage.

The large group of cabin crew were screaming “Gentlemen, gentlemen please sit down sit down. Fasten your seat belts. Please.”

Broken Shackles

They were home after years. They couldn’t contain themselves.  A decade of years ago they had left on a journey which had seemed never ending.  Today, their limbs had broken free of the shackles! Their hearts leapt, unable to contain their joy and relief. The sterile desert inside their heart was suddenly ablaze with green and yellow.

A voice close to my ears shouted and hands pushed me down. “What on earth!” I shouted.  Suddenly I woke up to the fact that I too was standing up and had taken off my seat belt. I had opened the luggage hatch and was pulling out my cabin baggage, nuts and all! A dangerous thing to do!

The touchdown was dramatic. The aircraft’s tyres touched the ground and sped down the runway.

Like my fellow passengers, I was euphoric to be home. After all, I too had been away from the Motherland. For fifteen long days!

Concluded

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