Inside the temple, closed eyes and open lamps make a binary. The smell of burning incense wafts in the air on the back of the dying bells. Am I the only one with functional eyes? No, the priest who breaks coconuts with his calloused hand and sprinkles flowers on the effigy has his eyes too. His hands wet with sweet coconut water, his lips more sweet with the mantras. The privilege of watching bodies without being watched by them. Exquisite, the way a God operates.
In my mind, the sacred and the profane share a common space: my votive offerings consisting of a prayer and a dozen mundane demands. All the eyes open and the light of the lamps flash in them. The mantras grow louder. The bells rattle. Hands that were joined for so long are now raised like a U: vertical flags of skin and flesh. Smiles bloom like red and white flowers. And I return: the bell of my heart palpitating with things I can't properly enumerate but expect the invisible power to decipher.