There was nowhere else
To go, now here
The waves crawl like ends
Of the worlds, kiyama broken
Like the promises of listless gangs
Who made us sail "without pangs".
You are indentured
Without the certainty of blood and sweat”.

We went to Port-Louis and Penang,
To Guyana and Port of Spain.
Uncertain subjects as usual.

Another date on my contract,
The door opened to follow me
To the end of their narrow world.
Jahaji bhai and behen, we sailed.

This day, I stopped to see why I exiled
My hope within my endless doom.
They said even the trumpet of death blooms
Over the head of bhai doum.

When I crossed the limitless kala pani,
The ocean levelled death and survival.
Many faces became livid, some oval.
It was now the test for the coolie.
Besides the sea, tears delivered us from womb to tomb.

After the ghouls, we stepped at the ghat.
Our fates relied on days that
Ultimately made our souls flat,
Ready to speak of lands called moshibat.
“Don’t fear poor souls, this is chota bharat”.

We were waves of women and men
Exiled to challenge the names of absence.
All became petitions and omens
In a land meant to capture our bruised essence.

We said Time has come to stand
In front of the Masters of impatience.
Port-Louis will be the sign of our resilience.
Let them frown at their own indecence.
One day, they will face their own despair…

(c) Khal Torabully, November 2, 2019

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