Ever since I could remember, my mother was religious. She was a bible-wielding, song-singing prayerful woman. I assume her pact with God must have started earlier, inspired by my grandfather, who was, and is still is a fervent churchman, in his 90s. And yes, I have seen what teenagers wore in the 1970s, and my mother was no exception. My first memory of organized religion could have been forgotten, yet it clings to my mind vividly. Three people were knocking at our high iron gate. It lacked symmetry, and the person outside the gate could see me. And I could see them. The artisan who had made that gate had never been to a geometry class, and I was standing there feeling three sets of eyes looking at me through the gaps. The two gentlemen had white shirts, a suit and tie. I remember immediately looking at myself; even a child can be self-conscious. I had been rolling around on the veranda—my dirty brown shirt, dusty shorts and dry, scaly legs told the story. The lady was less i
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