The festival in the village temple, remembering my first communion ...

When we arrived at the temple it was almost dark - the glowing sky above us dimmed - stars began to appear, one by one, forming their remote, ancient, constellations - the crescent moon was a sliver of bright bone - 

We removed our canvas shoes, placing them amidst a shoal of discarded footwear - I wondered whether we would ever find them again - there was warm gritty sand beneath our feet - the exciting, dangerous, smell of fireworks reminded me of when I was a boy, watching my dad light the rockets -  

Inside the temple precincts, we were guided through the swelling crowd - its murmuring voices were like the sound of a gentle sea - every few moments, firecrackers were set off - bare chested men blew upon trumpets - bells were rung -

Women of all ages were gathering in front of one particular shrine - they lined up before its closed doors, singing softly yet insistently - we stood nearby, to one side - 

I knew that something strange and wonderful was about to happen -

Young men began to beat drums with curved drumsticks, louder, louder - their slender arms rose and fell -

Then the doors of the shrine slowly opened - two priests emerged, adorned in smoke, each carrying an lighted oil lamp through the lines of women - 

Woman after woman leaned forward, bathing her hands for long minutes in the flames of a lamp - 

I gazed at the women, with their calm, serene, faces - 

With the rite completed, the priests re-entered the shrine, glistening figures in its golden interior - they shut its heavy doors -

I delved into my memory hoard - 

There I was, with my soul unspotted, taking my first communion - I remembered the smell of incense, how the wafer had melted on my tongue -