In a Land far far away from Lumbini, there is a temple. Now this isn't like your usual place of worship; here the bells and gongs have been long replaced with sirens indicating work-shift transitions, and the robe clad monks have shifted their locus of control to give way to a rather dull grey jumpsuit to enter their wardrobes and their hearts. The name of the temple you ask? "Shanghri-La plastic molding co. (SPMC)" is what the board reads, referring to the much awaited and aspired promised land, where everything is pleasant and hunger is restricted only to the ambits of knowledge. Life is simple in this religion, profit is the only spiritual end that one seeks and loss is the biggest sin that the machine gods can foresee.
It is a hot day at the SPMC, the sun is not out yet and the siren chimes a ring, calling all the monks to their place of worship. Once, the monks have all been assembled in ranks, the most devoted ones are asked to light up the incense and bring the furnace to life; The machine gods have been summoned. The head Rinpoche with his endless pile of files makes an appearance, to read out the commandments of the divine to the devotees. As he appears into the assembly, a hearty offering consisting of paperwork and approvals is brought to him by the devotees, seeking his inked blessing on behalf of the almighty. The approaching crowd is quickly put to rest by the screech of the microphone that has not been noticed all this while; A significant day, it is going to be.
"We, the management of SPMC, acting on behalf of The Board have decided to manufacture plastic injected Buddha figurines." , said The Rinpoche. The machine gods roar in agreement, almost adding to the legitimacy of the claim that the holy man has just made. The Rinpoche buttons his grey suit ,while neatly tucking the sheets of paper that carry the commandment into his breast pocket; Afterall God's word must always to be close to your heart, if not in spirit then in display. The monks have an opinion of their own, some are unbothered by the change of wind, while the devoted ones, those who are enchanted by the spirits of the machine gods hear a voice within- "You have the chance to create what others worship". The siren blows out a scream, pulling the monks to their machines of worship, mystically as some might say.
The old machine gods must retire, to give way to newer ones; Ones who can now pave way to the dreams that previous ones had charted out for them. The monks have been handed out a series of new religious texts, these ones have figures and diagrams, indicating how the new gods must be worshipped to create a product and inch closer to salvation. Once theology has solidified itself in the minds of the believer, rituals in the form of supply chain practices have been introduced, with each machine god there lies a dozen of lives- pressing buttons and pulling levers is the new form of worship. Like every other religion, markers are a norm here. Unlike other religions where the society evolves with a marker over a period of time, this temple came up with a uniform one a couple of decades ago. The age old label machine god has been summoned, he along with his set of lives have broken away from the chain of replaceability by producing a consistent and durable label which very humbly reads out- "Made In China"; 'MIC'- A marker signifying everything that the temple stands for ,and perhaps on.
The day has finally arrived when theology must marry ritual, to give birth to several hundred thousands of offsprings in the form of standardized figurines. The Siren calls out to all the monks, who appear with a sparkle in their eyes; "New buttons to push" is what a lesser devoted soul amongst them says. The cogs have taken up their places in the machines and the furnace is roaring at its might, the internals of a clock are put to shame when compared to their animal counterparts. The Rinpoche has made another appearance, this time near the finish line, the generosity of the noble soul has led him to bless the first lot of figurines making their way through. An Army of offsprings march onto the conveyor belt, glossy on the outside and hollow within, carrying a marker of the religion that they represent. The Rinpoche picks one such offspring and inspects its bottom for the much coveted label of assurance; The monks have delivered, yet again.
Contrary to popular belief, blessings take us a long way. And if they seem to come from The Rinpoche himself , they might even take a figurine to a place several hundreds of miles away. As for the Figurine, it made sure that he unlike his unblessed siblings did not land up in Mainland China Restaurants. He went to a place where he did not truly belong, in the State Manufacturing Museum of the People's Republic. A place that had not seen the presence of god till its establishment, now housed a Golden Buddha Figurine clad in an oriental attire with a mysterious laugh on his face , A Tag around his neck that read "Donated on behalf of the workers of The Shanghri-La Plastic Molding Corporation".
