We were at the temple and the flame was brought round. My parents had told me it was god. I was supposed to touch it then raise my fingers to my forehead. I held my hands there deeper and longer there than was sensible and brought them away streaked with sooty shadows.
It didn’t hurt, but it shocked my mother. Perhaps I did it because I was bored by that place and the rituals that barely meant anything to me. I can’t recall. But if I did believe it was god, how could I choose other than to burn myself?