Migrations Comments

Can they be called men? It is a painful memory of the Partition, how was the Power transferred and how were the lands settled not, partitioned?

Migrations is about migrations made forcefully during the Partition time. How were they who left them to the roads, forced them out of their homes? Can they be called men?

How does migration influence history?

THE FRIES ARE SIZZLING NOW...What a telling detail! We are driven onward by the sweep of events...by our own moment-by-moment appetites, so our migration entails loss of things we were tied to. Nobody will keep our old house for us.

Initial pat of my comments: Those who have not suffered the scourge of migration cannot fully realise the trauma of the migrants. We were in Jhelum when the communal riots started in the wake of India's partition in 1947. We had to leave that place in a hurry virtually to save our lives with no money, valuables or properties. My father was a qualified engineer.

Now my dreams ask me If I remember my mother And I am not sure how I'll handle that. Migrating across years is also difficult. - - - A touching write depicting the deep scar that migration has left in the heart of the poet. How hard one may try to forget, it is not easy to overcome the feelings of pain of such magnitude.

(3) We were forced to leave everything we had behind and to begin everything from scratch here. You have done well to bring to fore not only the sufferings of partition but other such mishaps globally. Hats off to you Keki Daruwalla, for such an heart-rending portrayal of Migrants and Migrations. Thanks.

(2) My paternal grand parents (Dada-Dadi) came by train. They were brutally murdered by blood thirsty bigots along with hundreds of other innocent passengers right inside that train. Many of trains full of dead bodies crossed the border on both sides. How can we forget the cost of this wholesale migration at that time.

My mother, brothers and sister were already in Dehradun where my Nana Nani lived. My father was in Dalmia Cement Factory in Dandot. He was offered two seats in the Dalmia's personal plane. He along with his younger sister (My Bua or Aunt) came to India by air.

Now my dreams ask me If I remember my mother And I am not sure how I'll handle that. Migrating across years is also difficult.........so touching, impressive and true. A beautiful poem shared.

Such a great poem by Keki Daruwalla👍👍👍

touching of philosophy! - O Yes- this stanza - And if you meditate on time that is no longer time - (the past is frozen, it is stone, that which doesn't move and pulsate is not time) - if you meditate on that scrap of time, the mood turns pensive like the monsoons gathering in the skies but not breaking. excellent

Not a great write.- - - - - -

Now my dreams ask me If I remember my mother And I am not sure how I'll handle that. Migrating across years is also difficult. beautiful poem especially in the present context..... thank u dear.. tony