I carefully looked for a groove without a thread and then double-knotted it. Then attempted to untie it and tie a simpler knot - making it easier for whoever unties it. The thick, red threads representing people and their selfish musings (or not) and prayers of floating hope.
There I stood, jostled and hustled, amid degrees of faith. Of muttered prayers and dialogues of want. A millenia of spaces existed under the awning. Each looking for their own comfort from the sacred. With colour and the rain. Amidst Dama Dam Mast Qalandar. Prayer verses wrapped in soft brocade, nestled, sheltered from the teeming masses. The fine print filtered out. With strands of hypocrisy woven in. Men and Men through marble latticework. And one moonlight clock.
For the construct called religion. and for the thread, the bible in the bag, the self in the census. and the withins-and-withouts in the head.
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