Author name: Chaitali Sengupta

1. Here is the rambling path. It travels out to the fields, from the forest, and through the open fields to the river’s edge, trailing under the shade of the Banyan tree, just beside the ferry ghat. And then, it winds through the broken banks on the opposite shore, before meandering into the village. Further on, skirting beside the linseed fields, bowering through the shadows of the mango-groves, edging by the lotus-pond, passing by Rathtala, and finally reaching into a village unknown to me. On this path, so many have walked- some who have walked past me, some who have kept me company, while some have seen only from a distance! Some have worn a veil; others have not. Some going to fetch water, while others returning, their pitchers brimming with water. 2. The day is now at its end. Darkness is descending. Once upon a time, this path seemed to be my own, belonging exclusively to me. Now I see that I’ve the permission to walk upon this path only once, and no more. Passing the lemon-grove, the bank beside the pond, that ghat of the twelve temples, the silt-ridden riverbed, the cowshed, the granary storing paddy, passing those familiar glances, the familiar voices, the known faces, I will never go back and say again, “Hello, there you are!” For this path is the one where one walks ahead; this is not a path of returning. In the greying dusk of the evening today, I turned back once. I saw this path embracing the many forgotten footprints of the past, that are attuned to the melodious notes of the raga ‘Bhairavi.’ The path has briefly sketched, in a single line of dust, all the life-stories of the travelers who have sojourned this path. A single track that stretches from the sunrise to the sunset, from one golden door to another. 3. ‘O rambling path, do not keep the tales of those voices of the past fettered to your dusty ways. I’m waiting with my ears attuned to your dust, do whisper the tales to me.’ The path falls silent, its forefinger pointing towards night’s dark veil. ‘O rambling path, all those travelers, their thoughts, their desires- pray, where are they all gone?’ The mute path refuses to speak up. It only spreads its sign, between sunrise to the sunset. ‘O rambling path, those footsteps that once fell upon your breast, like a shower of flowers, are they all traceless today?’ But does the path now its destination? Does it know the way where the flowers have disappeared, and where those silent songs have reached? Does it know where the starry light dazzle the perennial pain brightly, like the festival of light? Original: Rabindranath Tagore Translation: Chaitali Sengupta