Gunga didn't, and never will

Some people are social butterflies. I think of myself as more of a social caterpillar, or perhaps pupa, existing in a cozy cocoon of imagination and sarcasm. Once in a while I (am forced to) get out.

Recently I was at a place that was very communal. Families were sitting cross legged on the ground. Middle-aged men sat around reading magazines in the shade, away from the mid-day torpor. Couples sat here and there holding hands. Young boys roaming around with mobile phone (theirs?), no doubt sexting. Young married couples were showing off their little kids, festooned in curious baggy pants, doubtless designed by a color-blind man with OCD, for he could not decide between pink, white and yellow stripes running vertically, horizontally or oblique, and so decided on all. Comely women fled in all directions as I approached or even just walked by them, even though I had buttoned up all the way to my neck.The breeze blew now and then. Live music: a wind-instrument and percussion that packed a punch.

Ah, it sounds like the backdrop for some smarmy commercial set in Central Park (except for the missing French bull dogs and Chihuahas) with a Louis Armstrong soundtrack, doesn't it? It's a wonderful world. Actually, this was a Hindu temple in Singapore just past noon. 

Amidst all this stood out a lone man. He was clean-shaven, well-groomed and had a calm, placid look on his face. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt of some sort, and perhaps reflecting his genteel upbringing, it was even tucked in. Tucked into his boxers. I kid you not, I tried to discreetly verify if they were cheaply-made-in-Bangladesh bermuda sborts, but I am sure they were boxers. I suppose all are welcome in the house of god.

I was in this predicament because my cab-driver had decided to drop me off here, and I had time to kill, so I decided just as well to say hi to my estranged childhood friend, a.k.a. god.

I was making my observations sitting in front of the main god, after a cursory circumnabulation. Shortly, someone was serving rice out of a large vat, and unbidden, people had formed a line. This was a classic case of nature and nurture working together: the Indian gene, used to famines and forever craving a calorie, no doubt led to a magical gravitation to the rice bowl where just earlier were 40 people lounging about with no purpose, in a sort of Brownian non-motion; and while this may have led to a mob frenzy in India, good old Singapore training had made it simply a matter of getting into line, orderly and sheep-like. I wonder if it is a good idea to still wash down Hindu gods with full-fat milk and offer them rice cooked in clarified butter and loaded with sugar...

Me: Hi, god.

God: Howdy? Things going well?

Me: Could be better, you know how it is. Oh wait a minute, you probably don't.

(Embarassed silence)

Me: Coffee?

God: Sure. 

Me: Sugar?

God: No, I'm Indian. (Sheepishly) Type II diabetes. I wish they'd bathe me in matcha and switch to sucralose. And while at it, some soy-sundal as well.

Me: My friend is here. I must go. (start sidling off)
God: For two thousand years I have been eating curd rice for lunch. It's a nightmare. I'd give a shower of gold for some gobi manchurian. Don't even get me started on pizza.
Me: Take care now, buddy. Ciao!
God: And for heaven's sake, would it kill them to put a Bordeaux in my hamper? Zeus and his buddies make fun of me all the time. The Druids are even worse, insufferable. I feel like the guy who orders milk at a bar.
Me: (Hailing a taxi)
God: As for my sex life...
Me: (Jumps in front of bus)

Anyway, I had my face-down with the powers that be. I am not really sure what people hope to accomplish with the various perceived mechanisms when dealing with the higher power:

-Bribery: Please get rid of my wart and I will offer you a goat. Really? Heaven must be terribly overstaffed if this request succeeds. Time for Bob and Bob.

-Flattery: Please give me a promotion, because you are the real god. The others are all fake, like silicon breasts. I can't believe some people fall for it. Lots of people. (Fantasizes about Pamela Anderson, wakes up with a start and repeats prayer).

-Addiction: I am so devoted to you, I will do anything - love, lust, money you name it. I am not really sure what I want, but I like my bald head with the little tuft.

-Rebellion: Screw you, I am going over to Satan. He was handing out spliffs outside school yesterday and said masturbation is ok. I think he has even had "sex". Kewl (eyes glaze over in awe).

In my case, as always, I looked god squarely in the eye - well, not really in the eye, there was a lot of jewelry covering up the face, and when I think about it I am not sure I looked at god at all, because it may have been just a mound of flowers and silk - the priest swiftly drew a curtain, interrupting my would-be reverie.

I went looking for some women who would scurry away from me.

PS: The title of course is a reference to Rudyard Kipling's poem. The question to ask oneself, I think, is not what's the route to absolution. It is not even whether one is a better man (or woman) than another. I could tell you what I think, but I need to set up my cult and its bank account first.

Post PS: The title is, somewhat atypically seriously, a philosophical question on the practice of absolution - be it a dip in a holy river, a confession or a ritual killing.