The Migrant Story

It's 2 am, with the moon glistening on the highway. The sight of dark silhouettes were unusual, yet they were so many of them. The cracked hard asphalt froze their feet as they walked until their last breath. Their determination had fought all odds of the police, border control and extreme exhaustion to reach home; their ultimate goal. 

The news of the 21 day lockdown shocked the whole community. People were scrambling about thinking about what they should do. Tears rolled down their eyes, as they thought about the trap they had fallen into. For the past two months they haven't received any wage, with their rent unpaid and families back home starving. Their rations had got over just a few days ago, and all of them were living on biscuit packets. Everyone of them cursed at the situation, heartbroken of what lay ahead of them. For the next two days they couldn't sleep, thinking about their beloved back home. The gentle touch of their wives and kids, the soft voice of their mothers and the longing desire to see their dear ones. Their desires were wrecked.
It was then, the mutiny had begun. They packed their bags and left in the morning to protest at the railway stations and bus stands. With an infuriating attitude they pleaded states to resume transportation services for them to leave to their homes. In vain this was met with harsh beatings from the lathis of the cops, severely wounding them. Scars ran through their hips and legs indicating what they had just gone through. Little did they know this was just the starting point. They spent relentless hours chalking out what to do; but all roads led to one option. Walking the whole way. And so they did, some with children in their hand and wives by them, walking barefoot on the scorching asphalt as they reached the highway. The state and the leaders have deserted them, the courts had over-ruled them. The constant claim of the state providing necessities exasperated them, as they weren't provided with anything. They walked and walked with only one goal in their mind; to reach home.
Their feet burnt, and legs ached. They had just heard about their friends back at work getting hosed with disinfectant like plants, as they gently laughed, not in a comic fashion but in sorrow and pain. The protests continued with more people getting beaten up. But the sole determination to leave for home was what fueled them. A huge uproar thundered with millions shedding sympathy, but as they say, actions speak words, and there was no one to help these unfortunate souls.
They gasped for breath sleeping on the freezing road at night. Munching just on biscuits twice a day, and drinking water, they were malnourished.
Back at their workplaces, the rather foolish people(as they thought), slept on the slush of gravel and mud with no money, no food and no shelter. Hope desolated them as they fell into the clutches of misleading claims and corrupt politicians.
Through various border checks they had endured, only a few had sneaked across, with others left behind to face "charges against lockdown". Of the few, many became exhausted to their last drop of energy, as they trudge drown the highway. Men carried tired children, loosely in their hands as if it were dead body. Some broke-down on what had happened to their friends and loved ones during this agonising journey. Only three days had passed of what felt like a month, with the helpless unable to fathom at the remark that there would be six more days of walking.
Many gave up, lying death-stuck, cold hearted on the scorching road. What started of as a movement with hundreds, bottled down to only a few endures that had made it through. The sight of boards flashing the distance uplifted their spirits and as they got closer, fewer people survived.
With bones protruding out of their limbs and feet burned to char. Out of the many who left, only a handful made it through, delighted to see the faces of their wives, parents and kids.

The enduring journey of the migrant workers during the pandemic.