My grandfather migrated to the UK in the late 50s after a long and difficult journey. Once he reached London he then had to endure a number of different racial, emotional and financial hardships. But he was able to build a foundation for my family that we will be forever grateful for. I travelled to all the homes that my granddad lived in, leading me all over East London, including Aldgate, Greenwich and even the old site of the Ford Motor Co. plant in Dagenham.
This one is for you Babaji, for being Ajit Singh - from Sanskrit अ (a) "not" and जित (jita) "conquered".
I see the veins on your hands
come closer to the surface.
Imagining the untold stories
and exhale the taste of survival.
A strength built since arrival.
Tattoo’d into your lungs.
A lost linger of exile living at the constant rate of breath.
with ambition in his eyes.
Not knowing a word of their speech.
Determined not to lose the language of your ancestors,
Or forget the prayers that you preached.
I think about the drops of
that must have weathered you.
The way their words would attempt to rub the colour off of you.
Eventually you learnt a second tongue.
But your heartbreak remained unsung until your family could be with you.
It took many years till your rewards could be sewn.
with destinations unknown.
Eventually you became hyphenated:
But in no way has that divided
the essence of your roots
Separated you from the hard work, blood, sweat and tears
and territorial disputes.
You conquered a land that conquered your bloodline.
Between giving up, going back and the finish line.
You set the foundations to
You passed that power to my parents
Continuing to give your name justice.
You now sit by your radio
And defined by every strand.
Your skin still rich with the colour of your home land.
I smell tea and biscuits.
Reading the news; today’s paper in hand.
But your stories remain untold
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