I am 70 years old, and finally got to travel to the UAE where two of my sons live. It was multiple firsts: the first time I left the country, the first time I got on a plane, and more importantly, it was the first time I saw what my sons, Krishna and Ram, had been describing to me for the last decades that they have been working overseas.
I was sitting on the terrace of a building that was under construction in Doha. Night had fallen, but it was still hot. Beads of sweat dropped on the page of my diary in which I was writing a poem, making the words illegible. Illegible but indelible. I still have that poem with me. Words are all I have.
The irony of our village life is that when there were no services and facilities in the village, it was full of people. Now that there is a motorable road and shops, there is no one left.
For those of us who have had to struggle our way up, when one of us makes it so do others in our network. My younger brother and sister had it much easier because I was around to take care of them, their education. I am now building a house for my parents. We have come a long way.
Of course you miss the little things like taking your children to school or playing with them. But having experienced both being the son of a migrant as well as a migrant father, I can say the situation is much better now for transnational parenting.