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They came with calloused hands and silent grace,
From Bengal’s plains, Odisha’s face,
From Bihar, Assam, UP's sands,
From Jharkhand, Chhattisgarh, Tamil Nadu’s lands.
From distant homes, they travelled far,
Dreams packed tight in a railway car.
Not for riches, not for fame,
Just to work; without a name.
Kerala’s fields grew green once more,
Walls rose tall, shops opened doors.
Homes were built with sweat and pain,
By hands whose thanks we failed to gain.
We call them “Bhai,” a borrowed word,
Yet treat them cold, our vision blurred.
To us they’re “Bengalis,” all the same,
A nameless crowd, without a name.
Once we too walked those migrant tracks,
Money orders on our backs.
The Gulf, the North, we bore the strain,
But never learned to feel their pain.
Now we thrive on their silent might,
Yet mock their tongue, avoid their sight.
Whisper lies and cast our doubt,
Shut them in and shut them out.
But I, a Malayali, stand apart,
With folded hands and open heart.
To every brother, every soul,
Who helped rebuild what made us whole
Forgive us for our blinded ways,
Our silence through your hardest days.
Forgive the names, the looks, the fear,
For now, I see you, crystal clear.
You are not just labour, or the "other,"
You are our builder, friend, and brother.
Kerala lives because you stayed.
Bhai, forgive us and be repaid.
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