Kusti before the kettle

Before the kettle goes on, before the phone, before anything: wash hands and face, stand facing the light (the sun if Leicester allows, which is rarely, otherwise the little divo lamp on its steel tray), untie my kusti and tie it again while I say the prayers. The cord goes three times around the waist, for good thoughts, good words, good deeds. Two knots in front, two at the back.

My mother taught me when I was seven, at my navjote. Mostly I was worried about getting my new white sudreh stained. Thirty-four years later the whole thing takes three minutes and it is the only time of day nobody asks me for anything.

The kettle, as always, can wait.