Something Mythical Called A Bed
German Swiss International School , Samant , Anuj - 15
Is a journey an errand to a supermarket ? Or ten miles to a water-hole with nothing but a basket ? Is it something greater ? A change for the better ? Your mind starting to unwind , becoming redefined ?
For me a journey is about expanding your bubble . It ’ s really all about the struggle and the hustle . Which journey , you ask , is the epitome of this ? Perhaps it ’ s one as arduous as climbing out of an abyss . For me , a journey is simply toil , And an experience that Time itself cannot spoil .
The journey I ’ m about to describe is a common one , As common as the rays of the lion sun . Minute after minute , hour after hour , Hordes of Indians pile into the Promised Land of freedom and power . Jobs , family , education and money , People looking for someplace bright and sunny .
But underneath all the celebration and exciting aspirations , This grand old journey to the West can be as rough as the ‘ 70s in stagflation .
First , the child leaves his home : Waving parents , and tears fine as a comb . A monumental day , nothing less , But the child will soon be crushed by tomes of despondency and stress .
Just turning away is grueling , And onerous and burdensome , Life and friends just jettisoned , Evaporated , vanished and worrisome .
The child has travelled on a plane before , A great cavalier beast telling of luxury , and more . But now those bullet-grey edges don ’ t seem so pristinely polished , And those flaxen-yellow seat pockets are crammed full of rubbish . Fly direct ? ’ Course not ! For a student , money ’ s as exotic as Afghan apricots . A sojourn first in Australia , then onto Korea ; Then a leapfrog like a high-strung squirrel to Canada . And more than 48 hours later he is finally on his last leg , Another torrid flight sleeping on something mythical called a bed .
But still the golden dreams haven ’ t perished , Despair is still powerless to destroy , Yet he will learn how his stay can be cherished , Fed without the succour of joy –
Soil as foreign as bagels , People as different as carrots and chips ; First steps as pendulous as cables , His skin the pallor of congealed dips . Low and high , cold and hot , slow and quick , thin and thick , Everything seems inside-out like he ’ s seasick .