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  • Mabel Bassi


Buckets of fresh milk and clear water were being poured on a black statue of a deity. That is all going down in the drain. The supposed saintly priest, with half-open eyes and a monotone voice, babbled sacred stories. Stories about penurious and hungry children who were craving for just one bite or one sip, surprisingly finding gleaming gold coins on their beds. They cannot be serious. My fasting mother nudged my slouched shoulder, ushering me to sing along, and soon my voice blended with the gold coin-seeking crowd. And I just hopelessly watched the mélange of white and clear liquid disappear.

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