This one moves to the head of a long winding line descending and disappearing from here, from above the clouds, into mist and smog down to earth. It's a girl. She wishes that their much awaited picnic, since dad has an unexpected holiday, goes well and she gets ice-cream and cotton candy.
The next one moves up. He is a portly man in unkempt clothes, getting ready to run to his shop, Jayalaxmi Wines. The weekend sales were good but that Raghavendra Spirits, opened just opposite his prime location, is a worry. "Please make sure my sales increase, and I will spare no effort to rope in the college boys and teachers nearby".
The next is an IAS officer. He wants a transfer from Naxal-hit hinterland to the urban chaos where no IAS officer can ever be pulled up for non-performance, what with the din and garbage all around. Not to mention the wobbly government and coalition CM.
Then comes a school teacher. She really wishes her ward well, the one whose talent is about to be recognised by Intel for Youth Ideas.
The next is a musician. He has been praying for a prime slot in the Kutcheri circuit, and a sabha secretary has promised him the much needed break.
Then a housewife. She has already been busy making breakfast, packing everyone's lunch and ironing clothes. She is praying that the larger than life Anandi in Balika Vadhu is not falsely implicated for shop lifting.
And it goes on and on.
God looks tired. And very old. He looks much different from Michaelangelo's muscular masterpiece. More grey, more wrinkled, as he peers on the horizon. The sun never sets or rises for him. He hasn't slept a wink ever, and the constant "Good Morning, God" goes on all the time. He listens patiently, watches every face for a smile, a tear, and more importantly, honesty. He sees beyond what everyone shows on their face or in their voice. It is just that they never look at him, as they are simply engrossed in their own thoughts and the images and icons in front of them, with lamps, candles, incense and flowers.
They actually pray, but seldom believe.
The next is an IAS officer. He wants a transfer from Naxal-hit hinterland to the urban chaos where no IAS officer can ever be pulled up for non-performance, what with the din and garbage all around. Not to mention the wobbly government and coalition CM.
Then comes a school teacher. She really wishes her ward well, the one whose talent is about to be recognised by Intel for Youth Ideas.
The next is a musician. He has been praying for a prime slot in the Kutcheri circuit, and a sabha secretary has promised him the much needed break.
Then a housewife. She has already been busy making breakfast, packing everyone's lunch and ironing clothes. She is praying that the larger than life Anandi in Balika Vadhu is not falsely implicated for shop lifting.
And it goes on and on.
God looks tired. And very old. He looks much different from Michaelangelo's muscular masterpiece. More grey, more wrinkled, as he peers on the horizon. The sun never sets or rises for him. He hasn't slept a wink ever, and the constant "Good Morning, God" goes on all the time. He listens patiently, watches every face for a smile, a tear, and more importantly, honesty. He sees beyond what everyone shows on their face or in their voice. It is just that they never look at him, as they are simply engrossed in their own thoughts and the images and icons in front of them, with lamps, candles, incense and flowers.
They actually pray, but seldom believe.
