“This town is resting place for heathen Gods of rain” my father used to say. It rained mercilessly here. Our town was a big family of 100 odd small families; tens of temples, one Catholic church, a school, two administrative organizations from where half of the town drew their bread.
After school, I would ride through the muddy roads to the church and spend time listing to Sister Rose’s choir. My mother hated it. I wondered if our Gods hated each other. I wasn’t biased with Gods, I hated all of them equally.
Sister Rose was a fine woman. She was a misfit in that vestal’s lot. There was a difference in how dads from neighborhood saw her and the other nuns. I loved her choir. Her swift movements dictating the choir was the best thing for me in this town.
One day, it rained unsparingly, even by our standards. I was the only one who made to the church. Sister Rose left her cabin door ajar. She, a celibate of the church, devoid of all pleasures by God himself, was finding bodily pleasures using her slender yet beautiful fingers moving between her thighs.
Her ritual looked more beautiful to me, superseding the charm of her choir. I froze dead when she saw me staring at her. Sister came running towards me. I gathered some courage and asked, “Doesn’t your God forbids that, Sister?” She replied, “What I do with my fingers and all consent, the fathers of this church do to children of your age. If God forgives them, he surely does forgive me.”
Later, fathers of the church exiled Sister Rose. “For reasons unknown. She was a good nun” father said. Mother frowned and continued her chores. So did the fathers of the church. We never saw Sister Rose again.
Today, I saw her orchestrating a group of young girls in the city. She smiled and waved at me with her slender fingers. “Glad to see you in this part of the world,” she said. “Glad to see you still putting your fingers to