Pilgrims*

artwork by t. h. lisa

A terribly long one too-

And at the worst time imaginable,

The roads all circuitous,

Winds sharp and blustery-

An utterly impregnable winter.

The camels, with sore feet and chafed necks,

Tetchily lie down in slush

Sometimes our minds grow refractory

Recalling summer resorts in valleys,

Their broad terraces, and young women in silk

Serving sherbet. Our cameleers

Growl and curse and make off

To look for women and booze.

The torches sputter out

But there's no place to kip down,

In towns and cities we are met

With hostility or suspicion,

The villages are filthy, the prices they ask

Outrageous: we are in for a hard time.

At last we decide to travel all night,

Snatching a snooze now and then

While a voice whispers in our ears-

All this is sheer madness.

Towards dawn we came to a pleasantly cool valley

Beneath the snow line, moist and heavy

With the scent of dense vegetation.

A river sped along, the wheels of a mill

Threshing the dark, and three trees

Stood out against the horizon.

An ageing stallion galloped across the green.

We came to an inn, by whose open vine-festooned door

Two men sat dicing for high stakes,

Kicked away the empties of wine.

But no one had any news,

So we moved on, travelling till dusk.

The destined hour was nearly gone

When we found the place-

You might say it was most gratifying.

I remember, all this happened ages ago,

Would that it happened again,

But note this-please note this-

What was it drew us such a long way,

Was it a quest for birth or death?

Of course there was a birth,

No gainsaying that-we had proof incontrovertible.

We had seen many a birth and death-

And thought how different they were.

But this birth was hard to bear, sheer agony,

Very like death, our own death.

We came back, each to his homeland, his kingdom.

But we have lost all faith in the old order,

Amidst strange people clinging to their gods and goddesses.

Another death would be most welcome.

*The Bengali poem by Rabindranath Tagore, 'Tirthajatri', is itself a translation of T. S. Eliot's 'Journey of the Magi'. I thought the somewhat Borgesian exercise of translating the translation back into the language of the original, while carefully avoiding 'contamination' by the original poem itself, would amuse at least some readers. Punascha, the collection that contains 'Tirthajatri', also features another poem, 'Shishutirtha', that was purportedly inspired by 'Journey of the Magi'. I shall present a translation of this poem in the near future. --K. H.