When my doorbell rings I can generally tell whether it is a friend or a foe or a missionary or a girl scout or a dingdong ditch.
Under most circumstances a foe would kick the door down rather than ring the bell on it because my foes these days are mostly creditors who can no longer wait for me to become a New York Times bestselling author. A dingdong ditch is a uniquely American tradition where naughty teenagers ring your doorbell and vamoose even before you have taken your first step towards the door. So it is either a friend dropping by for a chat or a girl scout selling some cookies or a missionary trying to convert me who have the decency to wait.
The other day it was two missionary women representing the Jesus Christ Church of the Latter Day-saints, aka the Mormon Church, at the door. They were cheerful but circumspect, polite but persistent as they began talking to me. To illustrate that I was well-versed with the goings-on I made some small talk about Republican presidential candidates Mitt Romney and John Huntsman, both Mormons. I am not sure if that registered.
They asked me which faith I belonged to. I told them I was spared the faith gene. (My exact words). That seemed to confuse, intrigue and amuse them. It was a good sign for the missionaries that I was not in a committed relationship with a religion. Perhaps there was potential to convert me right in my doorway.
They then asked me what my family believed in. I told them my mother believed in anything that can be believed in or, in other words, she is a Hindu. I told them my wife is a liberal Muslim and our children have not been given any religion at all and it is up to them whether they want to be religious or not. I could tell that by now all this was getting too much for the ladies to process. To compound things I said it may not be too much to call me a faithless heathen. That’s when one of the two women reflexively swatted a mosquito. There were many that evening. So I invited them to come inside and continue their endeavor.
They asked me if there were any women in the house. I told them about my mother and daughter being home. The rest of the family was out. They said their tradition did not allow them to come inside a home where there were no women. I suppose my mother and daughter did not meet their exacting standards of womanhood. So we decided to stand in the verandah and complete a survey they were conducting. In between I told them that I was a journalist and I was indulging them purely out of a) Respect towards any visitor and b) Out of professional curiosity.
They discussed a bit about family values and whether I respected them. I said I did as far as they went (My favorite meaningless phrase).
One of the two women asked me if I believed in “eternal families” and whether I would like to be a part of it. “I do not believe. Period. And I do not believe in eternal anything. We live in a universe which is in a constant state of flux,” is what I said. That answer should have preempted everything else that was to follow. But they were not missionaries for nothing. They do not give up that easily. Then they asked me if I would like to have the same family after my death. “Once I am dead I suppose I am dead. I would have been cremated and turned into a small pile of ash,” I said.
They could see that this was not going well. Trust me, I was not trying to upend their beliefs or sense of religious commitment. I was merely being honest about who I was. I also mentioned that I come from a deeply pluralistic country where people believe in all sorts of things as well as nothing. They seemed fascinated by that idea. After about 20 minutes or so, the ladies shook hands with me and left. I offered them my best for the homes ahead. “Would you mind if I leave this card with you?” one of them asked and added that may be I could attend one of their eternal life meetings over the weekend.
I will skip the meeting in the odd but daunting chance that my life may be eternal. Who wants to write this blog forever?