On a recent trip did I realise how driving hope is a nutty concept. Exhilarating but coldly sardonic in an unjustified manner. Some worship planet, power, the Pope, his cape, the locket, his preened scent, anything but musk. While some worship their skin, it’s odour, the hair, thickened. For those who don’t categorise under any of these, look up expecting the almighty to shower upon them.
So while visiting one such temple a lot of observation were noted, sub voted and penned down. Dying flowers sprinkled with fresh water, holy souvenirs and reminders, water bottles, fancy keychains were a great variety to be sold. But humans, them in abundance. Hundreds of deities just waiting for hours looking at the huge hand carved door to open, chanting along in mass.
This is where Hope took birth.
The unity is shaken when the heavy bell rings in their ears, and drums start beating. The queue, now walks in extremely small steps tapping their feet to the beats and subject themselves to familiarity. The women carved on the marble pillars in a garment or two covered in grace and jewels seem to be making movements and slowly start to dance.
This is where Hope gets life.
Now that it has, her goddess brings herself to the floors. The sweat running down people’s faces, the murmuring whispers turning into loud prayers, all the goodness coming to one place so close where it looks like
people worship people,
and her jewellery becomes heavier and faith twice the size.
The will amongst the people that had died before, rebirths as they take the heat of the sacred fire.