What does the word pilgrimage mean? It could mean a journey to a sacred place or shrine, this being the most common definition.  However, to my mind a pilgrimage could also mean a spiritual journey of the mind where we look inwards trying to find peace and in our search we may encounter thoughts and emotions that encompass that nebulous of all things called the soul.

Rabia, a ninth century Sufi saint wrote:

In my soul there is a temple, a shrine, a mosque, a church

Where I kneel,

Prayer should bring us to an altar where there are no walls or names exist.

Then again, a pilgrimage can be compared to homecoming, since the pilgrim is seeking something of great importance thereby striving to find comfort, a semblance of order, a reassurance perhaps, that all is well.

That is how I like to think of our yearly visit to our grandfather’s house during our summer vacation.

As I ponder about it I am reminded of the flurry of activity immediately preceding the journey, the intense happiness emanating from my mother as she went about planning and organizing each and every detail with the greatest care. She would be visiting her father; all her efforts leading towards the final joy of that longed for visit. We would be away for the full month of May. The main house would remain locked during that time. Our cook would look after the rest, also taking care of the family dog. Our neighbour was given a set of the house keys.

Sometimes our parents spoke of visiting a new place, all done in a desultory manner, discussing the pros and cons of transporting a family of six, perhaps, to the cooler climes of a hill-station or the fun and frolic that a beach stay would provide. The end result would remain the same – Calcutta being the destination of choice. Once again my grandfather’s house had won, hands down. We, the children, were thrilled for now we would spend the long summer days with our cousins playing checkers, carom and hopscotch, have sleepovers, chat away the days and get spoiled by a horde of uncles and aunts.

We lived far from Calcutta that was home to the numerous members of my mother’s family. Some of my father’s family also lived here, although his parents, my paternal grandparents had opted to raise a family in our small town where I grew up. So, this trip to that city must have been the highlight of the year for my mother. She corresponded regularly with her father but during those months when our holiday planning was underway her letter-writing would have taken on a different meaning. With what excitement (concealed under her habitual calm) she must have penned those words, that like every year we were coming.

And, my grandfather must have wanted, no demanded, to know the exact date and time of arrival and departure. He was precise in his ways! In later years we would joke that our grandfather could not wait to see us leave. My mother chided us gently explaining that her father wanted to prepare his mind from the very first day of our arrival for the eventual but inevitable day when he would bid farewell to his daughter….until the next time. As a child this did not make sense to me. I see the profound truth in it now. I am the same way when our daughter visits. We live in the same city but I also want to know exactly what time she plans to leave.

I am reminded of our own yearly trip to India. While our mothers were present there was no question of going anywhere else. Come December and we would be caught up in the same frenzy of putting the finishing touches to organizing the trip. In our case we would be travelling to two different cities, and sometimes a third, with a distance between each a thousand miles or so. We divided our month long holiday into two equal parts so we could spend the same number days with each mother.

The excitement far exceeded the work involved to transport four individuals across the ocean.

We have made this yearly sojourn, this pilgrimage, almost religiously, until the passing on of both our mothers in the same year within a few months of each other. When I say it was a pilgrimage for me I say it with conviction. This journey to see my mother remained a bright flame beckoning me through the months of preparation and even when things beyond our control threatened to cause confusion as sometimes happens, I knew at the end of it all I would be able to see my mother, be within that calm presence, bringing balance to my mind. Like a pilgrim who sets out to seek spiritual fulfillment and finding it within that quiet space in the soul is finally washed off all of life’s travails, I too felt a great peace well up inside me. And I was ready to take on life with its numerous challenges, once more.

I was reading Tagore’s The Crescent Moon from his Rabindra Rachnavali. In it I came across these immortal words under the heading – The Source. I quote:

“…..the sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby’s limbs – does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love – the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby’s lips…”

Keep Well…..Keep Smiling

 Purabi Das

Purabi Das is an emerging writer and poet living in Pickering who finds inspiration for her stories and poems from life in general. To find out more visit Purabi on www.facebook.com/purabisinhadas

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