“Their Gratitude, Only They Could Know”
– Ramana
The ladies in their grass green saris
gather sheaves on the mountain
to feed their families, parched
in the dull heat of sun at high noon.
Backs bent in half to reach
each new stalk, their lips dry
and peeling, they move
in thin lines elegant
as a kingdom of ants,
yet they are not royalty.
Forbidden by caste
to drink of the one source
of water, they come to Rama
almost in tears, crying,
Swami! Swami! Give us one sup.
And God, who knows no difference,
dips a pail into his well and pours it
over each stooped spine
in a fountain of love
so cool, so divine,
they all gasp in delight.
Some mornings, He conjures
an elixir of water, ginger
and light and raises the cup
to each woman’s mouth
which they imbibe as if
it contained the one secret to life
– and it does:
a torrent of water dripping
down their delirious chins
and floating off each grateful finger.