I AM SOOMARIA AN

A YOUNG girl from the dusty village of Fathaha, south of Uttar Pradesh. In the unwanted embrace of poverty, dried tears on a face with a speck of hope in the brown eyes, bare feet kissed numb by the dry dirt, and ragged clothes on a body that craved warmth.

I sometimes looked up at the sky when tormented by the hunger pains and asked, “Why dear Bhagwan? Why this suffering?”

I always asked questions when it was dark and quiet, so God could hear my weak voice, but there were no answers. I did not give up hope, though, knowing he would which time my Nana died. He had become sick but my father did not have enough money to buy his medicine. I watched my father carry that guilt with him which was so sad, and I wondered about my wish.

Then in the fourth month, something happened.

Strange white men came to our village.

They had been sailing to different ports searching for labourers to work in a rich, far-off land. After listening to their offers, many desperate men, some with their families, took the offer with the understanding that at the end of their contracts, they leaving to follow a dream that in our eyes was painted in brilliant colours. But the shocking reality during that long journey splashed shades of grey on that painting.

The cramped ship, the inhuman conditions, and the disdain on the white men’s faces as poor souls who died during the journey were tossed into the sea.

After countless days and nights, the ship landed, I later learned, in a small South American country – British Guiana. My barefoot touched soft, green grass, the cool breeze blowing in from the river cooling my face, and for the first time, I felt I could h ear me one day. I lived with that thought so even in the day, when a dry leaf falls from a tree whilst I am walking by, I would look up at the sky and ask, “Did you say something?”

So anxious I was for an answer to prayers, that could lift the burden of poverty so we could have enough food and comforts to smile with life.

One night I saw a shooting star and I jumped up almost, knocking over my little brother to make a wish, and I waited.

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months by could return home with their earnings.

My father took me and my mother along with him for he did not want to travel so far away and leave us home alone. My little brother was left with aunts and uncles who hadn’t quite decided to go on the journey.

“We will be back as soon as we finish our contract,” he promised, “Take good care of yourselves and my son.”

Just before boarding the ship, I picked up a piece of dried dirt and put it in my pocket so the motherland could stay close to me until I returned. It was not easy smile a little.

“How good would life be here?” I wondered.

My thoughts went to the families awaiting our return with hope, but as we were allocated to different plantations, I realised it had been a deception.

A one-room hut, harsh working conditions on the sugar cane fields, and the cruel whip that tore the skin on the backs of men were a far cry from a good life. The dreams we came searching for we had to toil to find until it was time to return home.