Around May 2020, in the midst of one of the many harsh lockdowns imposed in India, migrant workers were the hardest hit. Fired from their jobs and with no money for food or rent and with all public transport shut down they decided to march to their original homes in far off states. For days and weeks, droves of penniless, hungry migrant families trudged along the highways in the heat of summer to their homes that were often thousands of miles away. It was an unprecedented, large scale humanitarian crisis.

The Upper Class Migrants

Lockdown 22 had just been announced, I drove down to highway 48. It was crowded with endless lines of marching migrants and a few TV channel crews. The heartbreaking plight of these, my fellow Indians, was making news globally.

I stopped and went up to a family lounging by some stray rocks, hoping to strike up a conversation with them. The head of the family was dressed in a white Paul Smith linen shirt, True Religion jeans and what looked like Ralph Lauren shoes. ‘I used to be country head of a global IT giant’, he said as he wiped a tear from his right eye, ‘but with months of no business, we had to shut down shop.’
His wife, who was in a floral, limited edition Ritu Beri kurta and a Tiffany choke, added, ‘Bit by bit our savings got wiped out and here we are now.’
‘But where are you headed?’, I asked.
The ex-country head replied, ‘Back to my home in Rajasthan, where my family owns a few thousand camels. We will survive on their milk.’ At this point he broke down completely. He was no doubt thinking of what his morning tea would taste like with camel milk instead of Danone. I too sobbed and moved on.

I stopped by a man pushing a Corvette in which was seated an elegant lady in a Roberto Cavalli tee shirt. The man, who used to be the CEO of a global liquor company, said he had no money for gas and was going to push the car all the way to his home in Bareilly, UP.
I told him that he smelt pretty good.
It’s the last of my collection of Paco Rabanne, he said. And my wife is wearing Elizabeth Arden.
He was right, a wonderful fragrance was wafting out of the car. I told him it smells a bit fruity.
His wife said, ‘Which reminds me, I haven’t had an avocado in ages.’
I immediately drew out a banana from my bag and offered it to her.
She ate it greedily, without bothering to peel it, and said, ‘I so much prefer a Chiquita, but for now, this will do.’
I gave her husband a bottle of Azzaro before leaving them.

There were thousands upon thousands on the highway trudging along in their Miu Miu shades, Ed Hardy tees, Diesel chinos matched with D&G belts, Steve Madden loafers and Love Lulu clutches.

Some shouted that the government should provide them transport by way of Range Rovers. Others added that they prefer electric cars so they don’t harm the environment.

It was sad to see these once proud people, who had built our cities, reduced to this. Lack of jobs had driven them to this pathetic condition. Many from the middle and lower classes were completely ignoring the ruling class migrant crisis. Not our problem, they said. Once the toast of society, the upper-class migrants were now on the road, in the severe heat of summer, marching grim faced with only the lightest touch of foundation and perhaps mascara. God, I thought, what new low has the world come to.

I saw a grey-haired lady pushing along a Louis Vuitton trunk. The erstwhile owner of an international chain of multicuisine restaurants, she was now on the road and down to her last bottle of Perrier. What will I drink after this is over, she cried, God I hope it’s not Bisleri! Then she asked if I could give her some smoked salmon in a bed of rocket leaves, gently sprinkled with chopped rosemary, accompanied with a squeeze of kaffir lime and dollop of Dijon mustard. I wept at her tragic predicament. Here was a lady who hadn’t had her high tea for god knows how long. I handed her a packet of Parle G, which she gratefully accepted thinking it was some kind of biscotti.

I took one last, sad look these once-privileged migrants who god and their company boards had abandoned. Then, with my heart heavy and sinking lower and lower, I headed back to my car as the nouveau poor continued their long desolate march home.