The Man Factor

A rain washed early morning sky. Rows of people clad in God's own country stand in a hundred waiting to wash off sins and better the lives of the dead souls. I am a little nervous, the anxiety of first experience. Temples had never religiously drawn me as much as they had as objects of antiquity. I see the consequences of that laxity and curiosity in the way I fumble to follow the instructions of the temple priest across the microphone. My immediate neighbour is a talkative guy and asks me, "Is your husband dead?" I look sideways unimpressed and say,"No husband yet. For my dad"

That doesn't put him off and like every man who speaks the unnecessary, he says," How many years is it since he died?"

"Four, does it matter?" I reply watching his yet to be formed  male patronizing look.

"Mine, only, just two" , he says with the typical innate tardiness in  men. I guess if he had been a woman it would have meant two years less grief.

I keep silent hoping to follow the instructions. He watches me fumble with the leaf, and as I place the rice beside the basil leaves, he asks,"Now, can't you even do a small ritual properly, watch me do it"

I follow his instructions and just then one of the organizing priests walks towards us and says," Hold the straws this way, and don't talk when the ritual sermons are recited."

I look down at the leaf ashamed and then I hear my seven year old ritual neighbour  tell the priest," You know these women, they talk more and work less"

I draw my conclusion, in every little boy there is the essential man.