Inhaling the odorific bouquet – a blend of rotten-eggs smell as an aftermath of fireworks dissipating downward and the bouquet of hops, malt, and yeast lingering from the brew spilled by the festive revelers strolling nonchalantly on the red-brick road on a Saturday evening, suddenly, my olfactory passages perceived the aromatic presence of frankincense and myrrh, both of which I associated with an ineffable sense of sacredness during the early days of my boyhood in Nepal.
But I did not smell gold. That did not mean Melchior was not nearby, for he was guided by the Star of Bethlehem to travel with his other two fortunate companions in a mission to adore and honor the Manchild with gold, frankincense and myrrh in the Promised Land.
As the nativity thoughts were swirling in my soul, I felt someone tapping lightly on my shoulder. Naturally, I turned around to see who it was. I saw no one.
Incognito. The cloak of invisibility. Magic. Voodoo Sorcery.
Such thoughts spontaneously gurgled up the swamp of my soul.
“Not the Voodoo Sorcery,” I heard the whispering. Not whispering, whispering. But a meaningful whispering without words or sound. And yet it was a welcome whispering to my soul.
Full of goosebumps and other worldly gobsmacking, I managed to whisper back, “Prithee, tell me who are you?”
“Three Wise Men are we.”
No sooner than my soul registered the whisper of Three Wise Men, my sensory tentacles raced down to the remote cubbyhole of the olfactory vault containing the piquant odor of a dromedary that I came across when my father took me to a circus a long time ago.
I whispered instinctively, “Where are your ship of the desert?”
“Oh we left them in care of a circus master not far from here.”
“With an incentive of a pouch of gold,” Melchior added swiftly.
Observing me mouthing words without a cellphone or other fancy gadget, the revelers walked by me giving me a wide berth.
Then I put it peacefully, “What brings you Three Illustrious Emissaries of Light to the oldest town in the Pelican State of Louisiana?”
“There was much, much light pollution in the sky!” Balthazar bemoaned soundlessly.
“And it was difficult to read the road map in the sky,” whispered Caspar.
“Well, I couldn’t distinguish bedlam from Bethlehem from the fuzzy signs up in the sky,” Melchior mused. “And to answer your question,” the Wise Man continued, “We noticed ‘City of Lights’ flashed briefly across the black velvet of the sky.”
“So we galloped reverently to reach Bethlehem according to the writings in the sky,” whispered Caspar.
“For Bethlehem is known among the initiates as the City of Light,” Balthazar said softly.
I felt sad for having the moniker of our city misled the Wise Men from the East with the plural of light. And I remained quiet.
Sensing my unease at the situation, Melchior whispered lightheartedly, “We should familiarize thoroughly with the grammatical pitfall/pitfalls of English language.”
“Forgive us for the confusion,” I whispered apologetically.
“Please, no need for an apology,” the Wise Men whispered reassuringly,
Emboldened by their wise counsel, I whispered if I might entertain them with a stellar quote from the Bard of Avon before they sail on the ship of the desert toward Bethlehem.
“Indeed,” again the Wise Men whispered in unison.
“The fault, dear Wise Men from the East, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.”
“Touché!”
And the Wise Men stole away, leaving behind an aromatic trail of frankincense and myrrh.
