Saturday, November 11, 2006

My Lord in the attic.

"We'll manage." they apparently said, six years before my birth, when my grandparents asked my parents what they'd do about their unborn, unplanned (and yet unconcieved) child's to-be religion.

Ms. Mom and Mr. Dad belonged to different belief systems, and each was more in love with their respective religions than the other. Also, their measurement of love for religion was directly proportional to how much they hated the other religion they were marrying into.

When I was eight, every Friday, Dad dropped me at a large creepy gate which led to a narrow staircase to an old blue room where children moved rythmically to noice and reading what they didn't understand. "What does this mean?" I asked once, the result of which was one week of aching knuckles and bamboo ring marks. I blindly followed and believed.
On Saturday, mom dropped me to an organization dedicated to drowning children in undecipherable, sing-song chanting. "What does this mean?" I asked again, and recieved a horde of coded expletives and a letter to my mother, which resulted in losing out on my favorite side dish at dinner for a month. I blindly followed and believed.

Every Sunday, I was confused.

One day, at school, I was introduced to moral science class, where my teacher, a woman with angelic wings on her shoulders and a forked tail in her backside asked me to tell her what God was to me.

Oh, man.

I told her I knew there were two Gods who switched roles on Fridays and Saturdays. And on Sundays he was off duty.

The girl sitting next to me, who once a while treated me to her lunch, then invited me to attend a spiritual gathering on Sunday at her place.
I went.

They gave me sweets when they were done moaning.


I blindly followed and believed.

So now, there was a different God for every weekend and weekly holiday of the Gulf. Also, everyone reiterated there was only one God.

One day, when I was sixteen and confused, I decided, "I will have a religion".
I discovered marijuana.

You know what? Ms. Mom and Mr. Dad were right.

They managed.


The Chosen Reject said...

Lost me in the end. Somehow it didn't ring true. But started with a promising flair.

Anonymous said...

Years have breezed by,
but wounds are still ripe.

Time is a healer,
thats what they say
And I dont want to wake up to this pain another day.

Every night I close my eyes and I'm 15 again
reliving moments that never did make sense.

And now i'm thinking if its worth a try?
to let go of this hurt that kills me inside.

Maybe I can wake up to a fresh start
with only love for living inside my heart.
And maybe one day I will be that girl
who had the strength to let go of all her hurt...

~~~~ ~~~~
Today I stand tall with pride,
I made the choice to live each moment of this life,
I have achieved much more than I thought I never could
I embraced me and I feel so good.

Dedicated to my ol frnd reshma..who managed to crawl her way back to sanity.

vichchoobhai said...

What a way to go?

I agree with u 100 %

I am promoting my blog on "Windows of Perception" with apologies to Aldous Huxley who wrote the Doors of Perception after taking Mescalin. I had a taste of it to, but it was too strong. A one time experience. And believe me, when i took it not only did i write poetry but saw God almighty but he was not a figure, it was all blinding multicoloured lights

Long live our religion!

Gutterflower said...

Okay I love this entry. Love!
Close to beating Dark Chocolate.
This is sexy.

Anonymous said...

THis is you're signature style..dark yet candid..!Although a bit exaggerated at some places, its still great..when's the next post??!

Random-Tandem said...

This is V

Someone once said...

Man made beer but God made in whom do ye trust?? Like it I do

Amrod Carnesîr said...

Whoa. Now it seemeth as though the Opiate is the Religion of the Masses. Way to go, Flamingo Lady!!!