Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore
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the murmur of leaves ripples along the forest path,
and the early bird sings.
'The time has come,' proclaims the Man of faith.
'The time for what?'
'For the pilgrimage.'
They sit and think, they know not the meaning,
and yet they seem to understand according to their desires.
The touch of the dawn goes deep into the soil
and life shivers along through the roots of all things.
'To the pilgrimage of fulfilment,' a small voice
whispers, nobody knows whence.
Taken up by the crowd
it swells into a mighty meaning.
Men raise their heads and look up,
women lift their arms in reverence,
children clap their hands and laugh.
The early glow of the sun shines like a golden garland
on the forehead of the Man of faith,
and they all cry: 'Brother, we salute thee!'
IV
Men begin to gather from all quarters,
from across the, seas, the mountains and pathless wastes,
They come from the valley of the Nile and the banks of the Ganges,
from the snow-sunk uplands of Thibet,
from high-walled cities of glittering towers,
from the dense dark- tangle of savage wilderness.
Some walk, some ride on camels, horses and elephants,
on chariots with banners vieing with the clouds of dawn,
The priests of all creeds burn incense, chanting verses as they go.
The monarchs march at the head of their armies,
lances flashing in the sun and drums beating loud.
Ragged beggars and courtiers pompously decorated,
agile young scholars and teachers burdened with learned age jostle each other in the crowd.
Women come chatting and laughing,
mothers, maidens and brides,
with offerings of flowers and fruit,
sandal paste and scented water.
Mingled with them is the harlot,
shrill of voice and loud in tint and tinsel.
The gossip is there who secretly poisons the well of human sympathy and chuckles.
The maimed and the cripple join the throng with the blind and the sick,
the dissolute, the thief and the man who makes a trade of his God for profit and mimics the saint.
'The fulfilment!'
They dare not talk aloud,
but in their minds they magnify their own greed,
and dream of boundless power,
of unlimited impunity for pilfering and plunder,
and eternity of feast for their unclean gluttonous flesh.
V
The man of faith moves on along pitiless paths strewn with flints over scorching sands and steep mountainous tracks.
They follow him, the strong and the weak, the aged and young,
the rulers of realms, the tillers of the soil.
Some grow weary and footsore, some angry and suspicious.
They ask at every dragging step,
'How much further is the end?'
The Man of faith sings in answer;
they scowl and shake their fists and yet they cannot resist him;
the pressure of the moving mass and indefinite hope push them forward.
They shorten their sleep and curtail their rest,
they out-vie each other in their speed,
they are ever afraid lest they may be too late for their chance while others be more fortunate.
The days pass,
the ever-receding horizon tempts them with renewed lure of the unseen till they are sick.
Their faces harden, their curses grow louder and louder.
VI
It is night.
The travellers spread their mats on the ground under the banyan tree.
A gust of wind blows out the lamp
and the darkness deepens like a sleep into a swoon.
Someone from the crowd suddenly stands up
and pointing to the leader with merciless finger breaks out:
'False prophet, thou hast deceived us!'
Others take up the cry one by one,
women hiss their hatred and men growl.
At last one bolder than others suddenly deals him a blow.
They cannot see his face, but fall upon him in a fury of destruction and hit him till he lies prone upon the ground his life extinct.
The night is still, the sound of the distant waterfall comes muffled and a faint breath of jasmine floats in the air.
VII
The pilgrims are afraid.
The woman begins to cry, the men in an agony of wretchedness shout at them to stop.
Dogs break out barking and are cruelly whipped into silence broken by moans.
The night seems endless and men and women begin to wrangle as to who among them was to blame.
They shriek and shout and as they are ready to unsheathe their knives the darkness pales, the morning light overflows the mountain tops.
Suddenly they become still and gasp for breath as they gaze at the figure lying dead.
The women sob out loud and men hide their faces in their hands.
A few try to slink away unnoticed,
but their crime keeps them chained to their victim.
They ask each other in bewilderment,
'Who will show us the path?'
The old man from the East bends his head and says:
'The Victim.'
They sit still and silent.
Again speaks the old man,
'We