The Matchboxes

When I was young, I used to pour them all on the floor. Then I would make them all lie flat on ground, make sure no one’s over the other. I remember, once I had made shape like a car, then a snake, a house… using those cool matchsticks.

But today, I am trying to make a palm, palm of someone who made them. I still remember, he would try to sneak a few boxes in his pockets. I wouldn’t know, what he used to do with them. Then once I went to his house, It was an evening that belonged to the storm and the rain.

There was no electricity in his house, a hutment… Dripping rainwater made its way through the roof and into the utensils his mother would keep on the floor to collect it. In the corner a lamp was fighting with the wind that came in as I opened the door, and a couple of flies on the verge of doing the daredevil self-immolation act into its fledgling flame. The only thing that I still remember apart from their faces, with eyes seeking something which I could never give, as I had nothing but money… what I remember, was the place to worship they had in that small hut… I remember, it was a place where they had kept the idol of the god they worship. They had made sure, there was no rainwater coming over their god’s small temple. They had kept it so clean, that no pest could come there.

Before I knew, my palms had touched each other to praise the god in that holy place. I was absolutely amazed at the temple more than the god’s statue inside. The temple was made by that kid, said his mother. I looked at the lad and smiled with utter respect in my mind. He smiled back at me.

I had to leave then, somehow we didn’t talk much. Its not been very long, but I just don’t recall much… Today as I lit the lamp in front of my god’s idol, I wish that matchstick helps bringing light to that kid’s hut. Because, he no longer will… Maybe the god that he placed in that beautiful temple he made with his own hands, helped him save so many lives in the fire at the factory today, finally took the kid away from his mother and closer to him…

I just wish to make his palm’s shape, with those matchsticks on a paper. I do not know, if his mother still prays to the god in the temple that her son made with his own hands, and with the same matchboxes and matchsticks, he used to steal from where he worked… I do not know, if there is a temple holier than the other, or there’s a god different than other, because as I lay those matchsticks on the paper, I only remember the boy’s face as he denied the money I offered… I remember, his smile when I was moved by his temple… I remember his trust in the god, who can not stop the will of the rich who employ a kid’s hand to make them fancy matchboxes to collect and matchsticks to lit their cigarettes…