BEHIND them walked the only living thing that shared their pilgrimage, the dog. And by degrees they reached the briny sea. Then, with souls well disciplined they reached the northern region, and beheld, with heaven aspiring hearts, the mighty mountain Himavat... Whereupon the lake was lapping, the lilacs were blowing, the chenars were budding, the mountains were glistening, the waterfalls were playing, the spring was green, the snow was white, the sky was blue, the fruit blossoms were clouds: and he was still thirsty. Then the snow was not glistening, the fruit blossoms were not clouds, they were mosquitoes, the Himalayas were hidden by dust, and he was thirstier than ever. Then the lake was blowing, the snow was blowing, the waterfalls were blowing, the fruit blossoms were blowing, the seasons were blowing– blowing away – he was blowing away himself, whirled by a storm of blossoms into the mountains, where now the rain was falling. But this rain, that fell only on the mountains, did not assuage his thirst. Nor was he after all in the mountains. He was standing, among cattle, in a stream. He was resting, with some ponies, kneedeep beside him in the cool marshes. He was lying face downward drinking from a lake that reflected the white-capped ranges, the clouds piled five miles high behind the mighty mountain Himavat: the purple chenars and a village nestling among the mulberries. Yet his thirst still remained unquenched. Perhaps because he was drinking, not water, but lightness, and promise of lightness – how could he be drinking promise of lightness? Perhaps because he was drinking, not water, but certainty of brightness – how could he be drinking certainty of brightness? Certainty of brightness, promise of lightness, of light, light, light, and again, of light, light, light, light, light!
Tras ellos caminaba el único ser viviente que compartiera su peregrinación: el perro. Y poco a poco llegaron al mar salobre. Luego, con almas bien disciplinadas llegaron a la región del norte y contemplaron, con corazones ansiosos de cielo, la imponente montaña Himavat... Lamida por el lago, en ella florecían los lirios, el cáñamo brotaba, las montañas resplandecían, las cascadas jugueteaban, la primavera era verde, blanca la nieve, azul el cielo, y los retoños de los frutos eran nubes: y él seguía sediento. Después, la nieve dejó de resplandecer; las flores de los árboles frutales convirtiéronse en nubes de mosquitos; el Himalaya se ocultó tras el polvo y él sintió más sed que nunca. Luego soplaba el lago, soplaba la nieve, soplaban las cascadas, soplaban los capullos de los frutos, soplaban las estaciones, soplaban alejándose, y él mismo se alejaba arrastrado por una tormenta de capullos, a las montañas en donde ahora caía la lluvia. Pero esta lluvia que ahora caía en las montañas no mitigaba su sed. Ni tampoco, después de todo, se hallaba en las montañas. Se encontraba entre el ganado, en un arroyo. Descansaba, con algunas jacas que, a su lado, metían las patas en frescos pantanos. Yacía boca abajo bebiendo de un lago en que se reflejaban cordilleras de albeantes cumbres, nubes que se amontonaban a una altura de ocho kilómetros detrás de la imponente montaña Himavat, cáñamos de color púrpura y un villorrio acurrucado entre las moreras. Y sin embargo, su sed seguía sin apagarse. Acaso porque estaba bebiendo, no agua, sino ingravidez y promesa de ingravidez —¿cómo era posible que bebiera la promesa de ingravidez? Acaso porque bebía, no agua, sino certidumbre de claridad— ¿cómo era posible que bebiera certidumbre de claridad? ¡Certidumbre de claridad, promesa de ingravidez, de luz, luz, luz y otra vez de luz, luz, luz!
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