I saw it growing up.
The long, grueling hours of hard work.
Calloused hands.
The result of rubber bands.
2 am alarm clocks, and 4 am Gujarati talks.
It wasn’t the life they chose, but the life they were handed.
The largest newspapers for Saturdays, signed, sealed, and banded.
Rain or shine, they were out there.
No phones, no cameras, just the bitterness of that freezing cold air.
They did what they had to do.
Pushing forward with blinders on.
No time to get sick, no time to complain.
It was all about carrying the torch, and fanning the flame.
We are the children of determination.
Of the parents who never gave up.
The ones who watered their garden, with tears, sweat and hard work.
The time is now, to rise, to stand.
Raise your hands to the sky, and mention the names, for the most high to see.
Of the ones that had cared for you when you were young, the ones that showed mercy.
VASIM KAPADIA 