The banyan trees watch generations like the gods in the temple. The incense and burnt offerings keep them worship worthy.

They take me back to my childhood when I followed my great grandmother into the temple and kneeled next to her. I mimicked her by bowing down. Our foreheads were touching the ground. I heard her pleading with the gods to take off twenty years of her own life and give it to my sick aunty. I cried. Silently, I asked the gods to be generous to give both my aunty and my great grandmother a long life.

I know my prayer was answered by God. My great grandmother lived to ninty-seven with very little health complaint. My aunty is in her sixties. The banyan trees were my witness.

God hears our desperate cry even in a temple filled with idols that he hates.