Life Of Pi. Yann Martel

      “While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the flunkies of a foreign god. They are the nightmare of all non-white people.”

      “And they eat pigs and are cannibals,” added the imam for good measure.

      “What it comes down to,” the priest put out with cool rage, “is whether Piscine wants real religion—or myths from a cartoon strip.”

      “God—or idols,” intoned the imam gravely.

      “Our gods—or colonial gods,” hissed the pandit.

      It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if they might come to blows.

      Father raised his hands. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” he interjected. “I would like to remind you there is freedom of practice in this country.”

      Three apoplectic faces turned to him.

      “Yes! Practice—singular!” the wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.

      They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came down quickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and Mother stared on, at a loss for words.

      The pandit spoke first. “Mr. Patel, Piscine’s piety is admirable. In these troubled times it’s good to see a boy so keen on God. We all agree on that.” The imam and the priest nodded. “But he can’t be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It’s impossible. He must choose.”

      “I don’t think it’s a crime, but I suppose you’re right,” Father replied.

      The three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, as did Father, whence they felt the decision must come. Mother looked at me.

      A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.

      “Hmmm, Piscine?” Mother nudged me. “How do you feel about the question?”

      “Bapu Gandhi said, ‘All religions are true.’ I just want to love God,” I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face.

      My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to my heart. Father cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, “I suppose that’s what we’re all trying to do—love God.”

      I thought it very funny that he should say that, he who hadn’t stepped into a temple with a serious intent since I had had the faculty of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. You can’t reprimand a boy for wanting to love God. The three wise men pulled away with stiff, grudging smiles on their faces.