Look at these people. Look at how absurd they are.

Every few hours they gather in a room and crouch, bowing their heads to nothing. Bowing to thin air- bowing to someone they cannot see. They call it prayer. Knocking their heads against the ground multiple times a day.

Gymnastics, that’s what I call it. Gymnastics.

Weird people.

Me, I’m not weird. I’m not weird at all.

When I pray, I do not knock my head against the ground. No, nothing like that.

I also pray to someone I cannot see however. Maybe that’s one thing I have in common with those weird people. Just that one thing.

Just that one.

But I don’t knock my head against the ground. I do not do gymnastics.

What other completely non-weird things do I do?

Every month I give out ten percent of my income to the person I pray to- to this person whom I cannot see. This is not weird. This is not weird at all. The leaders of the religious organisations to which I pay this money to, get richer by the day. Buying private jets and what not. But that’s none of my business. I’m just doing as commanded by my invisible God.

Sometimes I find myself speaking in a language I do not understand. It feels and sounds like gibberish, but no- I do not believe it’s gibberish. I believe it’s the spirit of my invisible God speaking through me- speaking through me in a language I do not comprehend.

All of that is normal.

All of that is very normal. Not a smidge of weirdness in all of that.

At least I do not knock my head against the ground when I pray.

At least I do not do gymnastics.


Image Credits:

Ineffectuality Regardless.

Tending to my chickens is the principal thing in my morning routine.

See how they’re doing, refill their feed, change their water, and generally make sure everything is okay with them.

I do all I can to make sure they live in the best of conditions.

I do all I can.

And then I pray.

Prayer is important, very important – even more important than refilling feed and replacing the water in the drinking trough.

I pray for my chickens.

I pray that they stay alive, and I pray that they grow healthy and fat.

I pray that they live in good health, and that sickness be very far away from them.

And then I pray against antagonistic powers. Against powers oriented against the welfare of my chickens.

I pray that these powers fail. I pray that they falter. I pray that they die.

Yes. I pray that any metaphysical powers- any person in fact, that intends to stand in the way of my chickens’ wellbeing should die.

Prayer is important, prayer is very very important.



Two of my chickens died last week. I don’t know what caused it. I do not know.

I must be doing something wrong. Maybe I’m not praying enough. Maybe I’m not giving enough money to the church. Maybe. But I know it means I need to intensify my prayers. I need to pray more fervently.

Some of my neighbours do not believe in the power of prayer. Some of them do not even believe in God. Fools. Complete and utter fools. How will one not believe in God? How? I feel sorry for them. For them and their chickens.

There is actually not any empirical evidence that my prayers have any effect on the welfare of my chickens however. My chickens are not any fatter than those of my neighbours. They are not any more insulated from sudden deaths. My chickens die just as frequently and just as sporadically as others. There exists no evidence whatsoever of the efficacy of my prayers.

But all that does not matter. My prayers work, I know they do. I am sure they go somewhere and are answered by someone. I feel it. I know it. I am sure of it.

My non-praying neighbours are fools. Fools of the highest order. My staunch belief in the need for prayer is unimpeded by the absence of any empirical evidence to support it. How else am I to protect my chickens from antagonistic powers if not by prayer? In this dangerous world? Amidst all of the evil powers that exist?

Prayer is key.

I get up from bed.

First I go to feed my chickens. I replace the water in the drinking trough.

And then I pray.

I pray my heart out.

Time to feed the chickens.

I leave my bedroom.




Image Source:

Where is my “Sir”?

I am a Sir.

Call me Sir.

Shut up. Shut up I’m talking.

I am X years old. I am Y times your age- we are in no way age mates.

Do not tell me “Good Morning”, tell me “Good Morning Sir”-  that Sir is imperative. Non-negotiable.

Shut up. Shut up, I’m talking. Do not attempt to interrupt me. No “buts”.

I am a Sir. Call me Sir.

Silly boy. Born last night, yet has the guts to pay me a greeting without appending my Sir.


Or what am I supposed to do to make my Sir-status obvious to you?

Scrawl my age on my forehead?

Tattoo my year of birth across my chest?

Re-depict my age as a composite of prime numbers and then sing them out to you?

Nonsense. Rubbish.

I have my own Sirs too. The people I cannot dare to address without their own “Sir”.

You, are my boy. My own boy. The prestige I afford my own taskmasters, you afford me too.

Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes, that is exactly how it is going to be.

Now, where is my “Sir”?

PS: I feel slightly rusty.