No smooth, no smooth, one son

Classic time in a mandir in the middle of Bangkok. After being sandwiched between the driver and my then boyfriend on a motorbike. The incense, the mantras, the shoes at the entrance. Forget the joss sticks, it was the wooden one that were important. In a pot. To spill on the floor. I picked up a pot, encouraged by my friend. I turned it upside down and threw its Mikado shaped content at my feet. And I waited. I think I even laughed nervously. I heard someone speaking to me in Thai. And I waited, again. But my friend did not translate. Then nothing. We went for lunch next door. It was bright. It was bright and my friend was still silent. I grew uncomfortable. Or uncompfortable as I say. She was named after a bread. My friend I mean. The one you like to dip in a paneer korma. The bread I mean. Anyway, she did not say a word. Finally, after twenty minutes of pretending that we never went to a temple, she told me what they said over my twigs. She said ‘no smooth, no smooth, one son’. To this day I wonder if there is anything else she had not translated to me. But to this day they were right. It’s clearly, no smooth, no smooth. Twice.