Desert Bullock

Leaning on the glass walls of a Burj

And burnt by the desert sun,

His hands search for the priceless water,

While droplets of sweat fall free.

Climbing higher since sunrise,

Ignoring his acrophobia,

He observes the curved horizon

And remembers lunch at home

Beyond the Arabian Sea.

Towers of the Middle glory

Plastered by these wounded hands,

And skyscrapers of the East pride

Carefully painted by these cracked palms,

Never shown for the eyes at home to feel.

His evenings in the sandy camps

Is spent in isolation,

With earphones in place,

And a call made to sweet home

To hear his newborn baby’s cooing,

From miles far away.

The hard-earned money,

Is sent frequently, to the home banker,

Wrapped with promises and hopes,

And with dreams of respectable living.

With serial packets and pickle in hands,

He stands in the long queue

Leading to the camp kitchen,

To win his few minutes

And prepare his own meal.

Suicide news of the campmates,

Marriage dates of the girls once loved by,

Narratives of secret affairs in families,

And failed exam results of children

Are shared amongst, with a brotherly embrace.

Ends the tiring day, with a visit

To a nearby room on the upper floor,

To wish all the joys, for a friend

Leaving for home on a month’s leave.

Returning to his own paradise room,

With tears brimming in his eyes,

He marks the calendar near his bed

And smiles at the circled date

Mentioned in his air seat reservation.