Saintly cargoes in sailing coffins

The creases on the forehead aren’t creases. They’re the defined gifts of knowledge. They’re the lifelines of experience, and one should stand on tiptoes to see them. And when one’s carried by the throng of the crowd nearer and nearer towards the forehead that possesses these lines, one should stoop low, so low that your own forehead touches the feet which carries that other one.

Gods walk free in this country. They walk in shoes of leather, wear branded clothes and walk amongst us. They have slick black beards, oiled and taken care of; they have valets and maids at their beck and call. And wherever they go, they spread sunlight.

Their feet are washed in milk; their feet are kissed and touched as they sit in cushioned thrones. And when they speak, their voices are magnified by the microphones, and you’re meant to listen intently as if your life depends on it. And then they tell you how to live your life so you don’t go to hell. Then they get into their expensive cars and drive down to their expensive manors.

We’ve been buying religion and spirituality ever since the saints drove off the sages into mountains and caves. Then they donned white and sandalwood upon their bodies, built their domes and opened up shop. And we flocked to buy. We bought the books, we bought the holy chandeliers that attracted prosperity in, and we strapped the holy necklaces around our necks and waited for our enemies to fall. Did money pile up inside our wallets? Did our enemies whimper and die of grave sickness? Alas, the holy articles seemed to have done their tricks, and we fall at the feet of great saints and nuns and beg for more. Spirituality these days thrive on the hope of people. Where there is hope, there is business. Where there is business, there is money.

For the past couple of weeks, we have been brought to light about the whereabouts of certain spiritual institutions that have gone out of its way to become more than that. And yes, we have been appalled but altogether too scared to do anything about it. Whenever we seem to talk about it, we make up excuses not to believe, to think otherwise. And I wonder if the shock has been too much I want to go back to the old world, to live on thinking that nothing has changed.

We are living cargoes of spirituality, which shed out skin as dusk arrives; we break out promises of being human and go to the bar to drink away the pains of trying to be close to ourselves. After all, all this has been done to get a good afterlife. May our coffins be strong enough to hold them all.

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