I have counted her footsteps
for thirty-seven years
the same path worn
into my slope,
the same pause
at the thorny ridge
where she catches her breath
and adjusts the
weight on her spine.
Her daughters
used to follow,
small shadows
learning the art
of bending
without breaking.
Now I watch
the granddaughters
in school uniforms,
walking the paved road
that cuts through
my base,
their backs straight,
their hands carrying
books instead of
bundles.
But still she comes,
this woman
whose name
the wind whispers
Kamala, Shanta, Rukhmani,
it changes with the seasons
but the story
stays the same!
Dawn rising,
feet finding
familiar stones,
hands selecting
the dead branches
I offer
like a prayer.
The forest guard
has grown fat
on his government salary,
his radio silent now,
his eyes
finding other
thin women
to follow
with his hunger.
She knows
the sound
of his boots
on gravel,
knows which trees
to hide behind,
which paths
lead nowhere
but deeper
into his reach.
Some mornings
I want to
shift my stones,
close my paths,
keep her
in the valley
where children
wait with
empty bowls
and homework
they cannot
read.
But the wood
must be gathered.
The fire
must be lit.
The rice
must be cooked.
And I am only
a hill,
holding
the weight
of women
who climb me
like a ladder
to survival.
When the rains come
I wash away
her footprints,
but by morning
they return,
deeper now,
carved into
my memory
like a promise:
I will rise
before the sun.
I will bend
but not break.
I will carry
what must
be carried.
And when
my bones
become dust,
when development
flattens my peaks
and paves my valleys,
when shopping malls
bloom where
my forests grew
Still,
in the concrete,
someone will remember
the weight of wood,
the curve
of a spine
learning
to hold
the world.
The children
with straight backs
will teach
their children
about the women
who climbed hills
before dawn,
who made pathways
out of necessity,
who left footprints
deep enough
to follow
home.
