It is Madras heat. Incisive, precise, ruthless like an angered accountant. Every spot, every dot of the baking earth is cut by searing yellow-white sun. Glancing off the cars and glass and buildings, burning, withering the plants brown, the people black. Black and hard and accountant-like, like itself. God Makes Man In His Own Image. Cruelly the sun-god smiles. You can see him if you are brave or foolish. If you can look up into that blinding brightness, you can see him. Small and neat and precise, neatly combed mustache, beady, narrowly focussed eyes, always calculating, always open and alert, flicking quickly over you and that around you and that in which you are standing. And he is summing his figures and he is deciding that you are not worth it, and he is flicking his attention away, because he has many appointments today and you are not included in his itinerary for today and so you are unwelcome. But he has been kind and he has seen you because it is part of the Tradition to be kind and accommodate, even if he does not like it very much, not very much at all. Then he is thinking about something else, studying something else, so that you are able to drag your eyes away from his clever, sharp eyes and look at the rest of him. He is dressed for the part, dressed in his shining golden sun-suit, because how disappointing he would be to his workers if he wore more efficient and comfortable modern clothing. An ornate gold breastplate, and a golden belt, and a great curved sword of terribly shining silver steel and gemstones, and a crisp white mundu with zari border- a kashava mundu, that most regal of clothes for the Southern man. Though of course, this is no man.

Then his shiny dark brown skin, polished and dark like rosewood. His broad, shoulders, his imposing height, and his quiet, plain, tightly disciplined face like a massive black polished rock, and as inscrutable. He looking west now, he is turning west, imperial even in the unostentatious manner of his movement. And he is changing. He is becoming what he must be to shine down as Imperial Sun God on the Western lands, and He is going to his charge, striding away there. He does not seem that big, but He is covering many hundreds of miles in his stride, He is going away, His burning, searing presence is leaving...

And the twilight comes, and the night follows it quickly, and I have not moved. The night wind has blown through the trees to ease the hot torture of my body, but I stand still and watch the place where he has vanished, for now that I have seen Him, I have changed... I have joined them now, and though I may be burned, although my skin may burn and my eyes be blinded by his Power and his Light, I am a Child of the Day now, my adoration shall never cease, my adoration will live until I cease, until I am ever Free, until I am free from the slavery of worshipping Him...

I Worship Him.