In the valleys, the paddy fields: near-perfect smoothness,
a serene antithesis to the hills.
Women in bright kangas bend across the green surface
or stand up to brush away sweat or rain.
They know the secrets of the slender shoots,
the roots within earth, the wind and sun.
Meanwhile, wagtails fidget in the thatching
of darkened classrooms. The cultivators’ children
bunch up on benches, bare feet swinging,
facing a blackboard propped up on rocks.
Gradually, chalk marks gain clarity,
become symbols, categories, mysteries.
Later, at home, bulky sacks are upturned
to a brisk shift of sound, like an onrush of air,
as rice grains softly shuttle down onto canvas.
The corners are patted to shake out the last bits.
Over a charcoal stove, the rice fluffs up,
and the family gathers round the saucepan to eat.
The empty sacks are taken aside,
torn with a knife, and neatly stitched
into tight, compact little schoolbags for books.
With a closely fitted handle, and three added buttons,
they are strong and coarse and waterproof;
apt to fray, perhaps, but maintaining resistance.
In this way, the sacks carry nutrients
for body and mind, from outside and in,
for child and mother, for manual labour
and academia, and, in the transition,
seem to dispel the difference.
Isabella Mead
Poems For A Thousand Hills 