'Seen, Not Herd' by Dipika Mummery

The sun is high and the elephants are passing through once more. 

They stop at the ever-shrinking lake. I watch from behind the gnarled columns of a banyan tree as they huddle protectively around two tiny calves. They drink their fill and whip up dirt with their trunks to fling onto their backs. When I was small - smaller than the calves - Ma told me that this cools them down. 

I tried it myself, once. It doesn’t work for human girls; you just get a smack and some furious scrubbing in the bath.

Some of the elephants wade into the water. Two stay behind to watch the calves as they trot tentatively into the shallows, ensuring their young are always surrounded by adults. A sharp pang: what is it like to be watched over at all times? 

I glance back at the hut. It looks lonely and vulnerable.

Trumpeting swings my attention back to the lake. The babies are safely back onshore. I want to throw my arms around them and squeeze them gently. Then perhaps I could travel onwards with the herd, surrounded by the safety of many giant craggy legs as we move towards our destination. Eating and sleeping with them. Never alone.

I creep out from behind the tree. Why not? No one would miss me but the occasional traveller seeking shelter and answers to questions about my parents, my friends, my herd.

An adult fixes its dark, inscrutable eyes on me. I halt, heart thudding. Will it let me in?

It turns away and trumpets to the others. Time to gather the young and move on. Then it turns back and keeps looking at me as the others arrange themselves around the calves.

I stay by the tree long after they leave, restless, alone.