From India, conversing in Bhojpuri,
Covered from head to toe in sari,
A thinly cladded kurta and dhoti,
The indentured laborers came, talking Hindi.
The Indians believed in Bhagwan,
Greeting everyone with SitaRam.
Respectfully, Salam and Pranam,
There was no need to mention a naam.
Adding a new delicacy with their Bhojan,
It was simply rice and curry bhaigan.
From one janam to the next janam,
It was satisfying food for man and woman.
A new type of metallic Bartan,
Came the thali and lota, with the pot and pan.
A flat tawa to cook roti and naan,
The young and old made use of any can.
Introducing new songs and Bhajan,
It was an era for inspiring gyaan.
Reading from the Gita and Ramayan,
They sang Qawali and recited the Quran.
Separated from their mother land, strangers gravitated with Bhakti,
Knitting a unified love with their Murti.
Overcoming humongous obstacles with Shakti,
They all dearly worshipped Mata Dharti.
Wrapped in colorful red, were their Books,
The Coolies certainly had different looks.
Taste and touch, thanks to the cooks,
Yet, in every nook and cranny, crawled crooks.
Our fore-parents, boxed their Brain,
To survive, while digging the drain.
Working tirelessly in the sun and rain,
They prospered from cutting cane to reaping rice grain.
Composed of inner and outer Beauty,
The immigrants slaved over their duty.
But, in the search for brighter pearl and ruby,
They had to change their names to Judy and Bobby.
An ancient tradition, filled with cultural Behavior,
Manipulated by the masters to make them feel inferior.
Customs metamorphosed as junior became senior,
Indians still cling to Bharat to maintain a legacy of posterior.