To My Dear Friend and Admirer

You have long urged me to board a steam ship
and cross the Pacific Ocean, and I in turn
have often said I would get around to doing so.

But it is time to be candid with you, for friendship
demands nothing less. Why should I do such a thing?
I am not a little bird that needs to leave the nest.

And with a war on there is always a good chance
that passengers might reach not the farther shore
but the bottom of the sea. I know it is fabulous down there,

for the American poet Walt Whitman has written about it
as if he takes regular walks amidst the coral and sea weed
and waving fronds. But please do not imagine

that I have forgotten about your many invitations.
Please go ahead with whatever festivities you have planned
in Australia, Japan, America, and other places

along the way just as if I had arrived and settled down
comfortably as your guest. I am sure that your home
would easily meet my standards and that you are either

an excellent cook or the employer of one. However,
it is only fair to inform you that I would be sure to rebel
against any dish not prepared with close attention

to my diet. I mean no disrespect whatsoever to your chef,
but western cuisine would never do for me. I shall not say
anything more at present about these sublunary matters.

But just in case I should clear my desk and the war ends soon
and I get around to packing my trunks I shall send you
a list of those items I have often forgotten in the past

when I have undertaken journeys. With this list in hand
you can keep replacements handy and upon my arrival
we can go over the list and make sure everything needed

is within reach should I find such items missing again.
This small problem does not originate from any insufficiency
in my trunks, for they are ideal for both trains and steam ships.

They have many compartments, including secret ones where
I suspect I could find many things sequestered there
from long ago. At this stage in my life I am not curious

about such matters, and I never open a trunk during a journey.
As you may know, it is quite risky to shave while one
is aboard a moving train or ship. And the convenience

of not having to sort through one's trunks is well worth
the small sacrifice of limiting ablutions to the basics.
My philosophy, as you know, does not call for descending

to the lower domains that would force me to think about
such matters as shaving or changing clothes simply because
they have acquired the sacred patina provided by the dust

of our provinces or the glitter of the sea. I must leave off
this letter, for I must depart Calcutta by a three o'clock train
and need to arrive one hour early due to my knack of missing

trains, ships, buses, and even rickshaws. You have by blessings
for the New Year whenever it arrives -- there is not time to check
the almanac on that matter. I must rush off to buy my ticket.

Rabrindranath Tagore

This poem will appear in David Ray's new book, After Tagore,
soon to be published in India.

copyright 2006 David Ray
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