Last Stroll in Flacq
It had rained briefly overnight. The air was moist and the sun was trying to burn through as it was on its morning rise, but the clouds were somewhat stubborn, doing their upstaging.
Dinanath knows the town, Flacq, like the back of his hand, as the expression goes. I don't know if I’ve ever studied the back of my hand. The lay-out of the place does not resemble a grid or square line on a graph. The streets wind like a creeks. It is Dinanath who leads us to walk along the road-side.
I'm in front of our single -file. We walk and chant with our japa beads. I offer a hand-gestured wave to oncoming traffic. Those motorists and cyclists do, indeed reciprocate, most of the time.
We, our pedestrian crew, are in kurtas, and dhotis, and that doesn't threaten or intimidate anyone, except for perhaps someone of another religious sect. People here are predominantly Hindu.
I was reflecting on the previous night's moving kirtan, through the streets of Camp de Masque. The count of chanters was over three hundred and fifty people, all followers of
Krishna. In such a quiet town nothing goes on, but for
a few stray dogs barking, and now here we were.
All in all, enthusiasm shone through from the chanters and the on
lookers, from their front-doors and verandas.
It all appears to be so colourful for us and them. I will admit, though, that we did not merge. The villagers were watching and listening
while we carried on with our mantra that gives us life.
In the evening I left to go back to
May the source be with you!