I turn to look at the little altar in front of me, a small table decorated with flowers, lamps, my father's framed picture. Everyone is busy as usual, the priest in front, Mummy and all the aunties listening to his every word, running off to fulfil his every command. He is so demanding, like the gods he's the spokesman for. Clicking his tongue in irritation and scowling at his little army of female minions. Praying to god is remembering a million little details. Banana leaf or a branch from the syringa tree? Pray to the East or face the West? Red kumkum or the orange one? Rules, rituals and regulations. These gods we pray to in our shrines have white faces like the ones who hate us here on Earth. No matter where they are, in the clouds or on the ground, all our gods are always looking down on us. Watching. Judging. Punishing. The ones in heaven will send you the worst sickness and bad luck if you eat meat on a Monday or forget a prayer. The ones here will strike you down for being you.
They don't forgive anyone. It's not true. They don't show mercy. They weave ill omens around your birth, so your whole life is difficult and miserable. All because you were born at the wrong time, in the wrong place, under the wrong planet in the wrong skin.
We call them gods, but aren't we the same? Yes, sure, Shiva has two more arms than us. And the white gods here live in their big houses with high walls, have cars and a lot of money. But we aren't all that different. The gods up there look uncaring. The ones down here look angry and scared. I think they are frightened of us. Why would they need all those guns? And tanks? And sjamboks? That's why they have so many rules and boundaries. Their world is not real. And it could break at any time. Instead of being nice, they have to be vicious. They have to keep us at a distance.
Yet they look just as unhappy and wretched as us. They just have nicer clothes, shit in proper toilets and drink out of glasses. I wonder if it feels nice to shout at people, to lose your temper and to kill them? Can it feel good? To watch something die? Is this godliness? Causing death. Being evil? It must be. To be strong enough to crush others and make them suffer forever.
I'll never be godly. I can't even stand stepping on ants. My heart breaks and I want to cry when I'm too late to save the moth that's flown into the candle when we have no lights at home. I'm weak.
Yes, we are to blame for them oppressing us. We keep them up there. On those pedestals. Worshipping them. Wanting to be like them. Grovelling at their feet. Begging for favours. Offering up food. Flowers. Ourselves. We think of them as supreme and us as just human. We believe we are not pure enough. Or too ignorant. Full of sin. Too dirty. We have to die a thousand times, life after life, or by the thousands before we feel we are fit enough to claim our place beside them.
Will it change? I don't want to look up to them anymore. I won't. I turn away from the altar and my father's sad eyes.
