The Pathway
By RABINDRANATH TAGORE.
[Translated . from the Original Bengali by Bhabani Bhattacharya.] THIS is the pathway trodden by many feet. Through a forest it reaches the meadow, through the Meadow it reaches the river bank. Beyond the waterway, from the other bank, it strikes in zigzags into the village. Passing through yellow cornfields and the shades of a mango grove, it rounds a pond and pierces the village waste. Then, on the dim horizon, it reaches a place the name of which I do not know.
On this path some men and women have gone in advance of me, some are my companions, others have fallen back ; a few are veiled, and a few bare-faced ; some are going to fill their pitchers, others are coming back with the burden of water.
Now the day is done and darkness gathers. Not long ago the path seemed to be my own—solely my own. But now I find that I may tread this pathway only once, and no more.
This is the path of advance, not of retreat. Not for once can I retrace my steps by that mango grove, the rim of that pond, the sands of that river, the cowshed and farmhouse, back to the long-familiar place and say : " Here I am again."
In this grey evening I look back for a while, and it seems to me that the pathway, which I. have trodden, among so many others, is like a verse made up of the rhythm of faded footprints.
Wanderers have come and gone. The life-story of each lingers on the pathway in the shape of a footprint on dust. And the long trail of such prints stretches from horizon to horizon, from the golden gates of the East to the golden gates of the West.
" Pathway, much-trodden pathway, do not keep the story of many ages thus hidden in your dusty silence. I have my ear on your heart ; tell me the story in a whisper."
But the pathway points silently at the dark screen of night and makes no reply.
" Pathway, much-trodden pathway, what has happened to the numberless thoughts and desires of your numberless wanderers ? "
The pathway does not break its silence. But it points at the horizon of sunrise and the horizon of sunset.
" Pathway, much-trodden pathway, the myriad feet that once fell on your heart like the rain of flowers—do they exist still ? "
Does the pathway know its own end, where all faded flowers and hushed tunes have reached, where undying pain finds expression from starlight to starlight ?
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