The Pilgrim by P.R. Kaikini (1912- ) as a poem has been excerpted from his book named This Civilization published in 1937. P.R. Kaikini trudges his way in an uncommon way as he has striven to see what the others have failed to discern. Michael Roberts in his substitute for a preface has made us understand how his poetry is different in tone and tenor and what should it be the encompassing traits of Indian poetry apart from religion and spirituality. We need it the scientific brain too.

Instead of a Preface

“Here in England, we are accustomed to think of Indian poetry as being introspective and mystical; we seldom find in it a delight in the vivid diversity of the outer world, or an intense sympathy for other people, or those ingenious comparisons and contrasts which are part of the English poetic tradition. Your work, I think, differs from most of the Indian poetry that I have seen: it looks out at the world of science, politics and everyday affairs, and it expresses a passionate sense of right and wrong. At the same time, you do not lose the inward vision ; your poetry is born, I believe, of a struggle between the two, and I think that such a struggle is typical of India today.” — Michael Roberts

The Pilgrim is actually about the pilgrimage of life. Man as a pilgrim and his life a pilgrimage forms the crux of the matter. He does not know nor can say it where he has come from. But has ultimately, taken you this far, is the matter of reckoning.

He has met the sun, stood the raging storm and has discussed with the noon-tide nymphs the birth of Birth and the death of Death. He has sung of serenade and has tried to see through the haze of mists and colors and dreams of man. The dusk casts a gloom over the sea as usual, but he has failed to delve into the mystery, that which is unknown cannot be. Things which cannot be explained can never be, you just take it for. The depth of the sea is unfathomable. Can it be measured, its waters? No, never, is the answer. It is not within his reach. What power has he got in? What is he endowed with? Can he turn darkness into eternal light? The Mystery is unknowable, believe you it or not. Unseen God, what do you know about? Neither you nor I know it. And at the day’s end we retire to our chamber for a rest.

I know not
Whence came I.

I have met the sun
And stood the raging storm
Discussed with the noon-tide’s nymphs
The birth of Birth and the death of Death.

I have sung an impassioned serenade
Under the gleam of summer moonshine
My eyes have penetrated
The iris-haze of mists and men.

The dusk has cast a gloom
On the boundless soundless sea
But what Unseen God has given me power
To turn darkness into eternal light ?

I hear an indistinct sound, an urgent word
A magic whisper from a far-off unknown land
I glide on like dust-particles floating in a sun-beam
To my rest in the endless haven they call sleep.

I know not
Whither I go.

Farther and farther, he has to move it away, as has a destination to reach, a place to go. A magic whisper from the far-off land tells, indicates of the distance he has to travel to and he glides on just like the dust-particles floating in a sun-beam to be restful finally. He does not know where he has to go to, where he is drawn to.