From the Journals of a Migrant

Dear Diary,

I’ve so many questions in my head but I can’t voice them in fear of the inevitable: disappointment and brutality. However, no one can stop me from penning them down even though I often find myself doubting the strength of a pen as compared to a sword.

Yesterday, I went out with a mask my mother stitched from the cloth of her old saree, and our creased ration card to buy a few vegetables when I was mocked and bullied by some kids I’ve never really talked to before. They called me vicious names and claimed that I was actually carrying the virus inside of me. Diary, I do not know anything about the deserted streets except for something about a disease that might kill me if I were ever to get infected, and thus, I ran home to my mom because I was so scared I couldn’t control my tears. If I knew what I was going to find, I’d have probably done something questionable. 
My father had died on the way back to our village because he fell asleep on the railway tracks while waiting for his ride, and was crushed by an approaching train. An aura of death haunted the walls of my house and I didn’t know what to do.

The government refused to send his body to us in fear of him being one of the infected. We can’t even cremate him. I desperately want to see him.

For years, my father had been working for a rich man. He had the duty to make tall structures from bricks which often resulted in him getting extremely painful injuries but he never complained and came home to us with little candies. 

You know, when I was only 4 years old, we had to leave our village in Bengal and move to Delhi because my grandparents were getting old and we weren’t earning enough money. What my parents have never told me is that our neighbors were responsible for our displacement too. But I’ve heard their whispers. They couldn’t accept me because I am a girl.

My dad hasn’t, hadn't only played a major role in my life but has, had, also never ever made me feel like it was a curse to be myself. Today, without him here, I feel so incomplete. I find myself looking for him in his room every now and then only to realize that I'm never going to see him again. 

My grandparents are devastated beyond relief. He was the only breadwinner in our family. We don’t know what to do. My mom hasn’t spoken or eaten since yesterday. She’s numb. I’m numb. Is this fair? Why us? I see so many kids still playing on the streets, enjoying, unaware of our sufferings. I hate them even though I shouldn't. 

Maybe, if we were rich enough, this would never have happened. Maybe, if I was earning too, I could’ve protected him.

It hurts so much.

He was a good man.

I miss him.

Yours,

Kalyani

(Written by Jiyaa)
Don't hate the sufferers, hate the monsters who have made them suffer. 
Don't judge the rebellions, judge the system they're rebelling against.