In probable earshot of each other, two divinities were lauded on Friday night between a meal of masala and palates cleansed with anise. At both sanctuaries, we were welcomed without device. A tentmaker shepherds his flock in premises where petticoats and jippas are sewn by day. With his deacons, he breaks out into ready melodies from methodical hymnals. He banters in sing song Mandarin and assures us of the sanctimony of his fellowship with souls in desperate search of affirmation. We listened and nodded, knowing the fire that kindles his earnest eyes but sharing not his fervent devotion to bespoke divinations.
Along the broader avenue, a procession defied the flow of traffic to reach the gates of Kali. Ferrying a parasolled altar bedecked in gold, the faithful bore their burdens of kudams and cleansed her halls to the wails of encircling pipers. We followed them, discarding shoes and sheepishness, and wandered to the rear where devotees were assembled and seated to devour servings stained with curcumin. Blessed by the indulgence of a serene priest, we returned full circle to the sanctum. There, a worshipper from afar urged us to sip cups of ritual dispensation; the pudding was warm, sweet and rich with the crunch of cashews. Is this tantamount to a blind bite leap of faith?
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