The Turtle Who Carried a Mountain

The Sacred Stone

In the foothills of Bhutan-Assam border country, where the Bodo people have farmed rice for centuries, there once stood a stone as tall as a man and as round as the moon. The elders called it the Dwi Gathwi — the Heart Stone — and they said it had fallen from the sky a thousand years ago.

For generations, the Heart Stone sat at the bottom of Hagrama Hill. But the village priest said the stone belonged at the top. "It fell from above," he said. "It wants to go back up. If we carry it to the summit, the rains will come on time and the harvests will be kind."

Everyone agreed. The trouble was, nobody wanted to carry it.

The Volunteers Who Quit

The village ox tried first. He was the strongest animal in the district — thick-necked, broad-shouldered, proud. He pushed the Heart Stone ten paces up the hill and then collapsed, panting. "Too heavy," he said. "Find someone else."

The village elephant — a working elephant from the nearby timber camp — tried next. She wrapped her trunk around the stone and heaved. She managed twenty paces before her legs trembled and she set it down. "Impossible," she said. "The hill is too steep."

The buffalo, the horse, and even a team of twelve men tried. Each one moved the stone a little further, then gave up. The Heart Stone sat a quarter of the way up Hagrama Hill, abandoned.

The Turtle's Promise

A small turtle named Oma lived in the stream at the bottom of the hill. She was no bigger than a dinner plate, her shell scratched and worn from years of crawling over rocks. Nobody paid her much attention.

One morning, Oma crawled up to the Heart Stone and pressed her nose against it. "I will carry this stone to the top," she said.

The ox laughed so hard he snorted. The elephant flapped her ears in disbelief. Even the sparrows on the fence cackled. "You?" they all said. "You can't even carry your own shell up a staircase!"

"I didn't say I would carry it fast," said Oma. "I said I would carry it."

One Step Per Day

Oma began the next morning at dawn. She wedged her thick, flat head under the base of the Heart Stone and pushed. The stone moved — barely. Perhaps the width of a single grain of rice. Then Oma rested for the remainder of the day.

The next morning, she pushed again. Another grain of rice.

The animals stopped laughing after the first week. They stopped watching after the first month. The monsoon came and went. The rice was planted and harvested. Festivals were celebrated, babies were born, and old people passed on. And every single morning, without fail, Oma pushed the stone one tiny step further up the hill.

By the end of the first year, the stone had moved five arm-lengths. By the end of the third year, it was halfway up. By the fifth year, it was three-quarters of the way there. Oma's shell was cracked in two places. Her legs ached every night. But she never skipped a morning.

The Summit

On a cool winter morning in the seventh year, with mist clinging to the hilltop like cotton, Oma gave one final push. The Heart Stone rolled forward, settled into a shallow hollow at the summit, and stopped.

It was done.

The village priest climbed the hill and wept when he saw it. The ox, now old and grey, bowed his great head. The elephant placed a garland of marigolds around Oma's neck — a garland so large it dragged on the ground behind her like a golden cape.

"How?" asked the elephant. "How did you do what none of us could?"

Oma blinked her small, dark eyes. "You all tried to carry the mountain in one day," she said. "I just carried it one step at a time. A mountain is only a pile of steps."

To this day, the Bodo people of Assam tell the story of Oma when a task seems too large to finish. Be the turtle, they say. One step per day, and the mountain will move.

The end.