I cannot, for the life of me, make up my mind about god.
Is there, or is there not, a bearded figure up in the sky, peering away benevolently at all of us down below on His earth? Or, if you prefer, is there a Mother Goddess up there somewhere, smiling away indulgently at all us fools going about our piddly little lives?
There are days when I think about the absolute utter disaster that Hitler was, or when I think about wars and famines and droughts and typhoons and hurricanes and I’m convinced that there’s nobody above us, and Dawkins is a genius.
And then a baby nearby gurgles with laughter, and a puppy perks up its ears on hearing that sound and wags its tail, and a steaming hot cup of ginger tea makes its way into my grubby little hands, and I think that god is in her heaven and all’s right with the world.
I vacillate, in other words, unsure of this position or the other. Bu there is so much that is good and enjoyable around me that I remain convinced, more often than not, that somebody up there must be looking out for us – all things considered.
And then a pigeon takes a shit on my terrace, and that clinches the argument.
There’s no god, I think savagely to myself, as I eye the blob of ugly green and white poo spoiling an otherwise perfectly clean expanse of tiled splendor, for no divine deity could allow the existence of something so monumentally dumb, and so monumentally prone to diarrhoea.
Why, I ask you, must the damn pigeons shit so much? Can they not hold it in a little longer? Is pigeon grub so very difficult to digest? And come to think of it – if it is, then why don’t they eat less of it, these impossibly moronic grey-feathered nincompoops?
There they sit on their perch, irritatingly out of reach, cooing to each other incessantly. And then they turn and face the wall, and let one rip, all over whatever lies below them.
Cars, tiles, plants shoulders and in some unfortunate, unnamed cases, bald pates. And having it happen once during the day would have been bad enough, but no – your average pigeon doesn’t consider it a good day until a baker’s dozen, at the very least, have been dropped on an unsuspecting human population.
And so I don’t care where you fall on the Does God Exist debate. I don’t care for all your religious citations and holy scriptures and all of what Aquinas had to say. Pascal can keep his wager to himself, and men of the cloth may kindly step away from my vicinity.
For pigeon’s poop is the argument that defeats all, dear reader. A world in which a pigeon can take a shit is a world in which god can’t possibly exist.
And now if you’ll excuse me. I need to check if Bezos is willing to sell me an air rifle or two.
#All views expressed in this column are those of the author and Pune365 does not necessarily subscribe to them.
He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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