O come all ye faithful

On the nineteenth day of August, every year, for over half a century now, great numbers of men (and women) gather at the Church of St Francis Xavier in Pallavaram, to seek the blessings and protection of the Almighty, as they walk to Velankanni, some two hundred miles distant. The “walkers” congregate at the Church, offer Mass, recite a Rosary and then keep trudging all the way. This particular group takes eight days to reach their destination, but there is another “fast walkers” group that does it in less. Most of the time, walking is used for prayer, very often the recitation of the Rosary, to keep everyone alive and alert.

I, too, have undertaken the journey more than once. The long-drawn-out event was a revelation of sorts, excoriating as I questioned the need for me to venture on such an arduous journey, but exhilarating as well, especially when I knelt, at the altar in the Cathedral, mission accomplished. For me, it was also a cleansing experience: I felt absolved, even as the physical strain just melted away. The impression cannot be described adequately in words; the soul soars, surfeit with serenity and ecstasy.

I was so overwhelmed that I set down some of my experiences in a poem, inspired by Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. The whole story can be found in my novel The Nowhere Man, published by Amazon in 2022.

Here is the poem—a fragment, actually (as was Chaucer’s Prologue). I hope (and pray) that some of you will not just respond, in whatever way you think fit, but, inspired by this piece, undertake this journey that allows the individual soul to find inner peace.

Prologue

When August comes, men—young and old—just wait,

For on the nineteenth some catch up with fate;

A motley band, three-score-and-four or five,

Waits eagerly for sunset to arrive.

St. Francis Xavier gathers one and all;

The priest intones that the sour taste of gall

Must imbibed be, by everyone that walks

To Mother Mary, guardian of the flocks.

And so I, too, the restless hour await,

My curiosity there to quite abate;

For I had heard that reason made all go

To Velankanni, grace and peace to know.

A Rosary is said and then each group

In fours or fives or sixes ’gins to troop

Midst wond’ring stares that ask: “What’s there to find?”

And fervent prayers from those we’ve left behind.

But ere I tell you, gentle reader, more,

I deem it duty to give you the lore.

A flound’ring ship did battle ’gainst the sea,

Quite losing out, but that was not to be,

For when the sailors called on Mary Dear,

She calmed the waves and cast aside their fear;

True recognition of the Mother filled

The men and they returning, ’gan to build

A sacred palace for the Queen of Heav’n,

In mem’ry of a lease of life, fresh giv’n.

The Virgin did appear to others there

As people of all faiths do witness bear;

And from that time they’ve come from ev’rywhere

Faith, hope, friendship and charity to share.

When they start out, it’s near half-past-seven,

Most walkers’ thoughts on naught but highest heaven;

None certainly can say, but one and all

Must surely have obeyed the clarion call;

Familiar faces everywhere around

With strength and silent energy abound,

For beginning with hope they feel they know

The total distance they will eas’ly go.

Two hundred miles seems really nothing new;

Been done before, and will in future too.

And so they break off, each to each

Group, partners till the goal they reach.

There was this bunch of half-a-dozen men,

Locals all, who found someone who then

Kept pace with them and put them at their ease:

A “Walker” from “Down Under”, if you please.

He kept the group together, led them in prayer,

And not just that, ’cause he had lots of flair;

He told a tale, or three, or five, or sev’n,

His thoughts and words not straying far from Heav’n.

This other was a fun-and-frolic guy,

The twinkle on his face revealed a roving eye;

But he was fervent as they come, or go,

And never crossed his mum’s advice, oh no!

For she forbade him sullying his lips

With smoke, though she said nothing ’bout his sips

Of brandy, whiskey, rum, or local brew,

For what went in your tummy came out too.

This other guy, a stripling, not much more,

Was into tales of violence and of gore;

He wanted “out” of India, so was bent

On supplicating Mother Mary to be sent

To distant shores. And yes, he went.

A giant among men, this next young “walker”, was,

Became a reg’lar pilgrim just because

His face was ravaged, like small towns in wars.

His stride was such that if he ran

He’d cover thrice the distance to our span;

But sloth and torpor were his constant friends,

So he did nothing t’engage in modern trends.

The fifth amongst the group, observant, calm,

He was the one, who always found the farm,

Or out-house, or a beck’ning, shady tree,

Where all of us could enjoy life for free.

And so our merry band went on its merry way

To keep our date, at Velankanni to pray;

And thank and ’ppreciate the Patriarch who knew

That Mother Mary is, t’all the faithful, true.

************