Monday, February 8, 2010

The guardian...

He sits on a small hillock and stares at peoples feet. The well manicured in their fashionable foot wear and the tough and dirty in old rubber slippers. You can say so much about a persons background by just looking at them. Some are barefoot. No footwear not a potential customer. He hopes that they will notice him. No he wills them to see him. Feel sorry and chose him to leave their slippers or sandals under the baking sun. Instead with the young punk behind the counter in the nice big room with shelves belonging to the kovil. Surely the kovil does not need more money. They already have too much unlike him. Who needs every rupee he can earn. Just to survive. To make sure his family has at least one square meal a day. If you can call rice and two vegetables a square meal? To ensure his wife has her medicines. Sitting alone for twelve hours a day his mind wanders. Flitting from one issue to another. He sighs. So many responsibilities so little money he says to himself as he settles down more firmly into the rock he is sitting on. Deep down inside he thanks the gods for not punishing the miscreants who steal peoples shoes thereby creating a need for a guardian of shoes. A service which he is happy to fill, for a fee of course. If everyone else can make money out of religion why shouldn't he?

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