A JOURNEY ON PILGRIMAGE

JATINDRA MOHAN GANGULI

I dreamt – or, am I dreaming?

I had started from home with a bundle of only sheer necessities under my arm. The railway compartment into which I pushed in was more than full and crowded, but then just a few minutes before the train was to depart I saw an old woman vainly trying to get in. I got up and using my elbows, as best as I could, I managed to help her in and shared my seat with her. Two drops of tear from her eyes expressed her feeling as she sat down and said “Beta, lite raho” (Son, live and be happy).

Later in the night I vacated my place to let her lie and myself sat between the two benches over my rolled luggage. Looking over her pale face and thin light frame, which lay double-folded on the hard uncovered wooden seat, I remembered my mother, who travelled with me like this, and as I drowsed it seemed that I had got her back. I was so happy as the days my mother had been with me appeared and passed in slow sequence before my sleepy vision with all the little details of her love, affection and care, her thought and anxiety for me. “Ma, Ma” I cried out in joy and sat up hearing with excitement. The old woman shook up and opened her eyes and placing her hand on my head said “Beta, soja” (Son, lie down), and feebly pulled and made my head lie on her side. It was deep night and all were asleep. I closed my eyes and tried to get back into the dream that had made me cry out “Ma Ma.” I wished to feel that my head was really resting on my mother as before and I wondered if this old woman was not indeed my mother. I did not open my eyes to know who indeed she was, and placed my right hand fondly on the dry unoiled grey head of her as I drowsed into sleep again.

When she woke me it was dawn and in a little while Banaras was to come where she was to get down. I helped her to get down on the platform. “Beta, tu age mera larka tha” (Son, you were my son in the previous life) she said and tears rolled down her cheeks as she tenderly placed her hand on my head to bless. I turned my eyes from her to suppress my emotion. Was she my mother in the previous life or in this?

I returned to the compartment, but had lost my seat. A strong turbaned man pulled my shirt-end and made me sit by his side. “This is neither your place, nor mine; we are here for a time only” he said. I fumbled to make an answer. He continued, “What else is this Duniya (world)? We come and meet, and then ... but let us eat. I’m hungry.” He opened a basket and took out some home-made puris and made me eat with him. His way of doing was not asking and uttering formal words; his way was direct, and just as he had pulled my shirt and made me sit by his side, so he made me eat. We inclined back on each other in the night and fell asleep. We were brothers; how we had crawled when small on the room floor, tried to stand up holding the bed or putting hands on the wall. We fell and tried again. Then we stood on legs, ran and played, and quarelled over marbles and toys, jealously shared mother’s attention, went to school, played games and in the night slept side by side on a bed. And then “Dada” I cried out as I fell from the seat and grabbed his hand for support. He held and lifted me. “Gir gaya, utto” (Fell down, get up). Hardwar had come. We got down into the rushing crowd on the platform “Dada” I said. Perhaps, he didn’t hear, but he said “Phir melenge” (We shall meet again).

I went with the crowd and had dip in the holy Ganga, then left for Rishikesh, where on the wide verandah of a Dharmasala I spread my scanty bed and lay down. By my side was a man with all grey hair on held and a white beard spread over his chest. His face was so noble. He sat on his bed, stretching his legs and inclining on the wall. I closed my eyes. It must have been cold in the night, I had drawn up my knees on to the chest. I felt somebody’s hand over me. It was the old, bearded man. He was feeling me. My arms and folded legs were tight on the chest. “Beta, tere thand malum hata” (Son, you feel cold) he said and pulling his rug covered me with it. “No” I said, but he didn’t listen. Warm now. I stretched my legs and changing sides fell asleep again. He had placed his arm round me to give the warmth of his body. It was my father’s arm, I dreamed. When I opened my eyes in the morning he was sitting “You gave me your rug and had no cover for yourself,” I said. He smiled and then asked where I was going. “On pilgrimage” I said.

I sat up, but he and other pilgrims had left. How? He was just by my side. His good smile was still before my eyes and his question where I was going was in my ears. And I see so many faces I have known, and hear so many voices I have heard. The sun is up. It’s getting late. I must move on. I hear a call, and I feel somebody’s touch on me. Ahead under a tree there’s someone sitting. What’s the matter? I ask, but he is sobbing; he is in sorrow; He spoke to tell me what had happened. I stopped him and said “What? No, you’re mistaken, you are in dream. You are what you ever were when you started on the journey. Move on, my friend. Why, what for you sit here and worry and sorrow? The journey is endless. They are all moving, they whom you meet and have met. The world is restless. Everything is moving, why, where, none knows; the earth, the sun, the moon, the stars, the wind, and we all, through dark and light, day and night.”

I stopped and then looking up saw a thin white cloud floating across the blue sky. I saw him no more, nor the tree. I rubbed my eyes. Where’s that cloud? Where’s he? Where are they all? The landscape is changing. I see other pilgrims on the way. The day is advancing, the sun is moving up the sky.

I move on – awake or in dream?

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