Home » Poems » Dr. Padmashree R P » What the Hill Remembers

What the Hill Remembers

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.

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