The old man sat at the edge of the water tank . The face –aged beyond his years—shrivelled, charred,wrinkled and furrowed , all silent evidences of a life spent outdoors, with long hours of constant exposure to the extremities of nature. Sun, dry wind, rain , cold air….. the bare torso and limbs had borne them all , for years. His skin was more an elaborate web of dry knotted veins , peeling off, almost in state of constant moulting.

The peak season wasn’t starting for another month and all he saw these days , was a small, floating population of devotees who trickled in through the morning , and left by the last bus, that arrived around mid afternoon. This meant that he had to sit there, for a much shorter while than he would have to, in a month’s time. Not that , sitting for long hours mattered to him ever.Actually, he liked the peak season—holiday time , and the place would be swarming with people..pressing against each other ,long queues, till almost half a mile out side the temple. The cool, normally fragrant air of the valley would suddenly get transformed to become heavy ,stagnant, dank --almost in a state of slow decay.In short… the season would bring to the valley -the smell of man… and the smell of money.

He had long learnt the art of being able to pick out , from the huge crowds … the ones who would fill his “dakshina” tray more than the others. He knew the right things to say, the right people to say it to, and at the right time. Contrary to what most people believed , he knew by experience that it wasn’t the richest of the lot ,that paid him more …. It was the usually the family with the most modest income, who always ended spending more than they could afford ,to keep the pretence of being extremely well-off… almost as if it was a need to buy the respect they thought they deserved. The wealthy had no need for the supplication of a mere priest to gratify their egos. They couldn’t care a damn.

He had no patience for people who didn’t mean any money to him and therefore his ability to concentrate energies on the right people, always made sure that he took home the heaviest money bag, everyday. The thought of money , brought a twisted smile on his lips—exposing his crooked , worm eaten teeth , stained in dirty shades of red brown ,thanks to years of tobacco chewing.

Of course, being a cripple helped. It always brought that sympathy factor into play.Which again, meant more money. Though, he always , underplayed the helpless cripple part, somehow the underplay made it all the more effective. Yes, it almost gave him an air of respectability , even.

He looked down at this atrophied lower limbs…. An severe attack of polio at the age of two , had in a way sealed his future .Cursed to be confined forever in the valley , to continue the family vocation of priesthood.They would never have let him be , anything more than a cripple …ever.

He had spent years, trying to pretend to be like his healthy , handsome brothers and sisters. Fought for years, the pain of rejection, and ridicule. He hated them.Yes, he hated them all. He knew he hated them most when they were kind. The pity , that reflected in their eyes when they had carried him along to watch as they played – oh , he hated them … he hated their healthy bodies… their swift agility, their laughter , the freedom of movement… He looked again, at the wasted extensions of his body.. disgust filled his entire being.

A lone family remained in the temple now. The last bus, had left for the day.They must have come by a private vehicle , he thought. They didn’t look like the kinds who would give him too much dakshina. So his interest in them , quickly waned. His mind wandered back to the unpleasant memories that were flooding in at a rate which he seemed to have no control over. His nieces and nephews were coming the next day to spend the vacation at their “grandparents “ house. Grandparents house…. To visit their cripple uncle…. To lighten up his life… he almost sneered , at the thought. How much, his brothers had taken things for granted.. their wives, their families… bitterness swept through him again.

It was beginning to get dark now. The boy, who came in, in the evenings to light the oil lamps near the shrine , was slowly walking towards the temple.

He liked this corner at the edge of the tank. It gave him a nice view of the entire temple. He liked sitting here and watching people come and leave. Funny, how he always noticed the way people walked – there was always something so exciting in the motion of a body , the gentle swaying –he remembered staring at people , till it almost took his breath away.

The tears had dried a long time ago… the self pity had died early as well.Anger was the only remnant emotion.

The shrine was glowing now…the boy had lighted the lamps, finally, he thought. He looked at the idol of the Goddess….. he remembered the years he spent as a boy , being forced to learn all the shlokas, and mantras. He had loathed it . But , had always known that there was no point protesting…besides, there was hardly anything he could do… there was a period where he thought if he prayed hard enough and was good.. he would be cured.. he would be able to walk…run..skip… swim… just like the rest of his siblings… He had prayed all day… he even fasted… a little boy of 9 ..more devout than anyone else in the family… the Goddess was the only other thing he thought of, other than his useless legs….

Cold realisation had struck when he was around eleven. He knew what the people who came here, everyday, from near and far, would never know… the fools! There was no God. Devotion was just a manifestay, from near and far, would never know… the fools! There was no God. Devotion was just a manifestation of man’s weakness . A resigntion of having no control over one’s life , and finding refuge in a “higher power”.. Fools! He almost shook his head in mock disgust….and snorted.

It was time to go home… he was really tired, with the mental exhaustions of the day. He usually was the last one to leave and therefore had to lock up the temple , before he made his way home .Last season’s earnings had brought in a brandnew wheelchair. A very comfortable one. Money .. he thought..a smile playing on his lips … was the only God.. the only real power… the kind of power that brought in comfort, brought respect, and yes, fear even… what a beautiful thing money was… It had been the only thing that mattered to him ., for a long time now.