It’s in the church that my imagination gets wild. Sundays mornings are the most terrific mornings for my imagination.  I go to the church under the compulsion of my dad, sit there in the bench, enjoying the English architecture, looking out through the windows at the antique English cemetery, which will soon give way to the native Christians of the church. I had once seen a grave of an English man, teacher to the prince of Travancore, (the ancient and original name of Trivandrum, which later was changed to the linguistically challenging – Thiruvananthapuram) buried sometime in 1814.  The grave is currently occupied by one Ms. Marykutty Immanuel. The other graves – belonging to the English, the reminders of the few British who lived and died in Trivandrum, are beautifully built. I wonder whether they’ll demolish them to make way for the natives, or whether they’d just keep them as memorabilia of a foregone era.

The native graves that lie besides their foreign counterparts are quite boring and ordinary.  Most are decorated with granite and marble stones, with the names engraved, and if the purse and the space permits, a photograph and a few lines-in praise of the deceased are added, which usually turns out to be the opposite of real-life-opinions of the family members. But in some cases may be true. The dates of birth and death are left for the readers, observers or who so ever is interested in going through them, to calculate, a test of your arithmetic amidst the graves. Some reveal their ages readily to tell how long they lived --to torture their children, wives, husbands, parents, siblings, relatives or made their lives beautiful instead. Many a portraits on the graves do not justify the words engraved on them. May be they’re just words – cause one look at the picture reveals the whole truth to you.  May be its true in some cases and may be in a few cases, just the opposite. Recently due to shortage of space, the church has opened the system of vaults. One can book one’s vault and for the rest of the family. Who knows when one might need one? Its one of the best investments one can have. When you die, all that your family has to do is dress you and take you to the vault in a coffin—of course you need a bed, and push you inside the vault that’ll be your room for the rest of your eternal life. When your spouse dies, he or she too will join you. Side by side you lie for eternity. The children may opt to be with their spouses, and may be select a different spot – all based on your relationship with them when you are alive. The marble and granite tombstones are now the beds for the numerous stray dogs in the church premises. They can be seen sleeping peacefully, sometimes alone, and sometimes with their families; and wake up only to see who’s passing. They seem waiting for a familiar face. Probably they are the same people who are buried beneath. Just in another form, like our very old rebirth – another Om Shanthi Om or may be in the Christian context, George-Mary-George.

Sometimes as my eyes wander through the graves, I find in the trees parrots. I had seen parrots before, but in captivity. But these were real and flying free. I wonder in which tree and in which branch they had their nests. That Sunday, I found that my eyes were being followed by another woman and her child, and when my eyes met theirs, I couldn’t help whisper the word ‘parrots’, cause they too had seen them. The woman shook her head and her child looked at the bird open mouthed. There was an age old mango tree and a palm tree that the church members cut for no reason at all. Probably the mango tree now sits in the form of some furniture some bloody members’ house.

I believe that none of us listen to the priest’s sermon most of the time. The Church seems, like a class room and the priest a lecturer, whose lecture is hollow and boring. I have seen in the faces of the people, the faces of students- waiting for the lecture to be over so that they can go to the canteen or may be just out of the hall or the room, to have some fresh air. He makes me think of my own classes and make me wonder whether my students too think of my lectures the same way I think of the lecture of the priest.  Many a times I have counted the grammar mistakes of the priest and have been tempted to write to him about it; but have thought against it. I wonder whether anyone else feels the same. I have always fallen asleep during the sermons. The first five minutes, my system listens and if it’s boring, it automatically shuts off. I wake up only when the sermon finishes, and it’s wonderful to notice how my system is timed perfectly.  Thanks to the veil, women can sleep peacefully during the sermon, but alas, the men have to sit through the torture with their eyes forcibly opened.   

It’s not the same always, but there are days when one is forced to think why they don’t simply spread the word of God, with a difference, why don’t the priests use some new technique? May be their duties through out the week don’t permit them to think beyond the box o find out new innovative methods to keep the faith. But what has disturbed me most is the hollowness of their words.

There’s dirty politics inside the church than ever. Position, power, money, corruption, caste and one has to believe colour too have seeped its way into the divine institution too. Nothing is spared in this divided world. But then when has these vices not been there? The very histories of humans proclaim the hunger of man for power. Even God played politics when he banished Lucifer from his kingdom. Why? Lucifer tried take over the position of God. He later became God’s supreme enemy. Lucifer, the fallen angel. Ever since the fall, there has been a tug o war between the two.

But the politics in the church is different and has material enough in it to be made into a movie. There are sections inside – called the Syrian Christians and the Non-Syrian Christians. The Syrian Christians proclaim that they were baptised directly by Saint Paul. They were the upper caste Hindus, who still hang on to the old caste system, though following it in a religion that declares equality to all. There is another story of Gnanaya Thomas who came from Syria with forty families and baptised the upper class – Brahmin Hindu Families, and even to day, they do not marry outside their caste and community.  It may seem crazy, but it’s true. Ironically, the evil of caste system moved on from Hinduism to Christianity even after conversion. The people, who got converted to Christianity to escape the caste system, soon found that they have fallen into the fire from the frying pan. Everything remained the same, except for the new names that they acquired and the new God that they came to know. Though the conversions happened hundreds of years ago, the basic caste and colour complex still remains and plagues the ‘lesser children’ of God. God himself would never have probably thought of such a system, but man- his own creation outsmarted him. Of course with a little help from Lucifer-Devil or what ever we call him. In the house of God dwell the men of the Devil. They preach in the name of God of Equality, Peace, Harmony and Love. But they are nothing but hollow-merely meaningless words.  I am religious, and love God, but I find the words of the preacher hollow and the members of the church hypocrites in every sense of the word. Certainly, God would have regretted the presence and preaching of such hollow men in his institution.  How hollow the words sound from the mouth of the men, who claim that they work for God. Come election for the committee in the Church, one can find a great deal of dirty politics. Worse than the election to the legislative assembly or the parliament. What are these cheap, pathetic games for? Only God knows the answer. The funny part comes when its time for donations, women’s fellowships, Sunday schools and youth meetings. They all become stages for people to show off and nothing else. I personally don’t think that they are doing anything with sincerity.  Even the Choir. Huh! I sometimes wonder whether they are singing in English at all! They seem to sing in such a style that they appear to sing either in Greek or in French. If it weren’t for the Hymn books, we wouldn’t have had any clue. Once when I visited a Catholic church, the choir sang so horribly that I felt, if Christ on the crucifix had any choice, he’d have pulled his nailed hands from the cross and covered his ears.

Most of the time I find myself mocking the words of the priest like a rebel. Arundhathi Roy had indeed described the true attitude of the Syrian Christians in her book – The God of Small Things. The only time I find myself at peace in the church is when the Bread is shared and I get to kneel at the altar and for a moment have a glimpse of the stained glass figure of Christ with some sheep, looked over by the angels. The rays of the sun bring out the beauty in the stained glass painting.

I have seen some churches that have been spoiled by their architects. Bringing in Indian architectural style certainly mars their beauty. Just as temples cannot be constructed in European style, churches shouldn’t be made in Indian style.  I love to sit alone too in the church, but rarely get the opportunity. The times when I got to spend the time in the church all by my self was once when there was a marriage and I sat there after the bride and the groom had left for the celebration.  There’s peace and beauty in the church when its silent and one can concentrate on one’s prayer.  

When the English service ends, there’s a rush to get out and to get into the church. The people attending the Malayalam service seems to think that the church is some cinema hall, where if they don’t rush in, they’ll lose their seats. People have unwritten reservation boards written on the seats of the church, which have been seasoned and marked by their butts. Certain ladies seem to be suffocating, if they don’t get their usual seats. It’s funny to see the grownups behaving like children.

Still I love going to the church for various reasons. I love the architecture, the songs that are sung, the trees, the graves, the altar, my imagination gets stirred, and above all the beautiful stain glassed picture of Christ, which I get to see only on Sundays. Sometimes I meet some old friends too. And I still feel, it’s not the men who come in the name of God who are important, but its God himself. The focus should be on him and his words rather than the half-hearted men who proclaim to be his servants.

There’s another perk of going to the church. I get to eat my favourite delicacy Puri from the vegetarian restaurant that we visit every Sunday after church. Though we think of making it at home, we are to lazy to even try. But then, why bother? Why not wait for the Sunday?