There, by the roadside as I drove down, I noticed a woman - her frame upright and steady - even under the weight of a massive bundle of dry grass she had gathered from the hills. Fodder for her cattle. I pulled over and got out, not to interrupt, but to silently witness the strength she embodied. As she slowly walked past, I stood at the bend, quietly observing - paying silent respect to the load she carried, both visible and invisible (The grass bundle on her head weighed no less than 40 to 50 kilograms).
“Must be heavy,” I asked gently. She nodded, a warm smile spreading across her face. “It’s my daily chore,” she replied, almost playfully. Then, with a spark of pride, she added, “If you want, you can click a photo. Show how we women in the hills work just as hard.”
I hadn’t stopped to take a photo - but her openness and dignity moved me. “I’m here not to click,” I replied softly, “but to learn silently.”
“Learn from me?” she chuckled. “The lesson is already there.”
I paused. Here we are, often consumed by the small inconveniences of city life - while she, carrying the weight of both grass and responsibility, offered no complaint. I asked her if this was her main task for the day. She smiled again. “No, I still have to cook and feed my family - children and cattle alike.”
I stood dazed at her strength. She had time for my questions too, perhaps sensing that her everyday reality - rarely acknowledged - held a quiet fascination.
“Did you click?” she asked again with a knowing smile. I nodded, with her consent - another subtle lesson in grace and agency.
As she disappeared down the steep trail toward her home, her image stayed with me - strength walking silently: unsung, burdened, yet remarkably tough and smiling.
It reminded me that strength doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it passes by quietly on a mountain road - with a smile that speaks volumes and asks for nothing in return.
(Photo courtesy: Photo captured by me, with her kind consent - in honour of the strength and grace of hill women.)
