Dejected, at being left all alone,
They are desperate to go back home!
Miserable, that they can’t find solace,
In the towns they thought were their own!
Those pangs of hunger.
That push them out on the road;
Those empty pockets,
That struggle to keep them afloat;
Those heartless wretches,
That make them yearn for home!
On the road they lumber,
Roasted by the scorching sun.
Barefoot they carry on,
In hope that there’s someone waiting at home!
Aren’t thou there to protect me? cries the labourer;
Only as long as you are of some use to me! laughs the master.
Lamenting their faith, they carry on;
Roti, Kapda, Makaan, after all, is all that they want!
Alas! On the road too the police doesn’t leave them alone;
The Laathi is wielded,
To rub salt into their wounds!
They drift on to the railroads, in anticipation that it will lead them home,
But here the train comes and runs them over,
Lest they ask to be let aboard!