Priorities

At the post office, I watched the brown-skinned man behind the counter light a stick of incense.  The tip caught flame and burned gloriously as he held it, head turned, talking to another man.  Once it had been burning for a moment and a thick ribbon of smoke was unfurling and scenting the air, he seemed to remember that it was in his hand.  He turned his head with a jerk, raised his other hand slowly, and then brought it down in an expert swat, almost as though he were killing a mosquito.  The flame swooshed out immediately and smoke gushed forth.  The man ran the incense under his desk, and then gave the alcove behind him a general sweeping out.  The smoke burned and unfolded in clouds, scenting the air of the post office pleasantly.  Then he tucked the incense into the drawer of a file cabinet, and came back to sit at his post.

Momentarily mesmerized, the Indian crowd now surged forward.  People pushed up against each other, hands on backs, breath on necks, trying to be served first.  Now that the obligatory incense cleansing had taken place, it was time to get back to work.