This poem is dedicated to Chhabu Mondal, a migrant worker from Bihar who committed suicide hours after he sold his phone for Rs 2,500 and used the money to purchase a portable fan and some ration to feed his family.
He said it was the same everywhere else
and opened his shirt – dismantled skin
where I saw what I thought was a tattoo
brown and red, but it was something else,
far too drawn to camouflage
a scar, so long it made me dream more of death
than realize his actual attempt.
Was it a consequence of warning?
Do you still think it is the same everywhere else?
Then why did he take with him the vermilion
of my head? Bihar, Maharashtra, and here at Kolkata
everywhere you said, when I complained
about what happened outside
while you went to bed. Only hours later
you were hanging by the ceiling, with my sari instead.
The history of you and me erased in a page
where food awaits at a miles length.
I still think it is the same everywhere else,
poor husbands dying, huddled in a burial space.
Santanu Das is from West Bengal, India. He is pursuing a master’s degree in English from Jadavpur University. Forever clicking pictures of places he fears forgetting, he seeks solace in movies and jazz.
To learn more about migrant laborers in India and the poet’s perspective on immigrant rights and the message behind this poem, click here to read an interview with Santanu Das.