Ode to the Western Ghats

I cradle dawn in my palms where the Ghats rise like quiet promises, each ridge a heartbeat pulsing with ancient breath. Here, mist drapes the hills in a lover’s veil, whispering secrets in emerald tongue.

Between Nilgiri’s velvet folds and Sahyadri’s limestone bones, I wander as one inscribed in their skin, every footfall a vow of return, every exhale an offering of gratitude.

These mountains hold the weight of centuries in their moss-lined hollows and granite spines, guardians of unseen stories etched in the rings of banyan roots and the flight of hornbills. Their silence is a library; their streams, inked lessons on resilience, on the patient carving of stone by water.

I love them as one loves a first home, with a longing that blooms in my chest, a quiet ache to protect every droplet that spills from their heights into thirsty plains. When monsoon skies unfurl their greying banners, I stand beneath the downpour, feeling each drop like the pulse of time renewing my faith.

This is my eternal commitment: to guard their green covenant against the hush of progress that would silence their song. I pledge my footsteps to their winding trails, my breath to their cool shadows, that the Western Ghats may stand forever, an undying testament to wonder, a living poem I carry in the marrow of my bones.