A small image of Ganesha on the turning. On a small ledge. Almost invisible. Every day anointed with Chandana, Vibhuti, Kumkum. By an old man. Who then places a wreath of flowers on it. And lights an oil lamp.
People who pass by bow for a second, removing their slippers. The office going man removed his sandles, and did a few thoppikaranams. I bow in silence, eyes closed.
That second of utter silence. Found only in this communion, of self and God. The only anchor in a world of transactions.
The old lady selling flowers stops, puts down her cloth bag of loose jasmine and jasmine wreaths, joins get hands, bows her head in a silent prayer. And moved on to her place further down. Placing her gunny sack on the footpath. Spreading her few wares. Jasmine, roses, marigolds.
A common thread of shared faith, shared worship. Cutting across caste and class.
At every turning. In my land.
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