Pilgrimage Poem by Bhaswat Chakraborty

There are flowers
On both side of the road
that leads to the shrine
These are wild flowers
with incredible fragrance

The road itself is broken here and there
Vanishes in the surrounding
fen, mound or shrubs
Rather than a determination to lay still
till the temple archway
and the binary rows of jungle jasmine
there isn’t much to the road

The wise one lived here
with his whole entourage
A century ago – perhaps that’s what I was told
There are myths and legends, of course
and there are folklores propagated
by the octogenarians
about the miraculous disappearance of all

I must warn you
That very few come here
Devotee or otherwise
Actually very few know the existence of the shrine
Despite the talks and the stories
My father told me once
that’s all there is to my orientation

After the wise one’s demise
A few festivals took place
with an obligatory mood
Nothing really sustained after that
No rituals, carnivals or pedestals
No sects evolved nor any line of ascetics

When I finally entered the relic
A couple of doves immediately vacated a niche
Leaving the auspicious sound of their wings behind
and a family of somewhat docile baboons
looked at me with neutral gaze
A teenage boy appeared from nowhere
and asked if I was someone from the films

I reflected on my dream
of meeting the wise man here
Sitting on his chair
(may be in his hey days)
with a sea of his followers
I also remembered a few words
of my father and the nearby village elders
about the deliverance he brought
to the people far and near

I floated in several sojourns of my mind
Standing there for the next little while
There was hardly anything there
Except for a wall mounted
Concrete Hanumana carving
and a reminder of a wall
with a few masoned slots and arches


The teenager asked me
If I was on a pilgrimage then!