Memory of a young Namboodiri

An ancient house of stone
And a statue of stone.

Incessant chanting in a dead language,

Flames dancing in the dying day,

The kiss of incense on the quietened soul.

He arrives after his ritual bath,

Honest: in wet thin cladding.

Caresses and adorns the stone

In gold, silk and sandalwood paste.

He bathes, feeds and worships the stone.

The young watch and their spirits move,

In tender, exciting, rising piety.

Hands folded, eyes wandering,

Foreheads ablaze with godliness,

The hair on his chest gripping their hearts,

The mysticism of his chanting

And the purity of his lineage

As potent as an aphrodisiac.

They worship the man as much as the stone.

God, Love, Worship and Shoes

On a dull Sunday morning

We gather outside the church doors:

Mothers and fashionable children,

Fathers with bright prams and new babies

(Eye shadows sparkle and lipsticks smile at

Expensive watches and crisp perfumes).

Smiling men in dark suits

Welcome each one personally,

(Their ties shine in their trendiness)

Pat the children and wink at them

Shake hands heartily, laugh grandly,

Exchange kisses and

Predictable jokes.

Each one is welcomed, each one is loved.

So much studied and practised love.

‘Beloved, let us love one another: for love is of God;

And every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.

He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love.’

The tall walls rise to meet

Hands joined in prayer.

Heaven dangles before hope filled sinners.

My head bowed, I see

The lady next to me has lovely shoes,

Red, that match her suede jacket.

I look at them and admire them;

My shoes aren’t all that bad either.

A tall leather affair that cost a week’s pay.

I must get a dress to match.

God does not speak to me here.

(Bexley 2006)