The search for......something

Some people go to temples. Some to mosques. Others to churches.

I go to Worli Sea Face.

I’ve never understood religion. I’ve especially not understood people’s desire to pray, to fast, to perform rituals, to seek God in certain pre- authorized places. I wanted to understand what solace people found in visiting these places.

And so I searched – sometimes grumbling, sometimes willing, sometimes in desperation. I wasn't entirely sure what I was looking for: I think I was just hoping to see and feel what everyone around me seemed to see and feel.

It’s been quite a journey.

***

I don’t exactly remember my first visit to a temple, but I’ve had enough over my childhood years to be able to sum up my experience: creepy. I’m not sure if it’s because of the nauseating smell of overflowing milk that permeates the air, or the damp dirty floors that you’re expected to walk barefoot on, or the forced-down-your-throat prasad, or my own personal pet-peeve of hating anything put on my face.

Or maybe it’s because it’s the last place on earth I would go to when looking for peace.

The chaos, the venders, the money-making, and the dirt somehow don’t manage to add up to an inviting setting.

But still, a 10-year-old child has little say in such matters, and so I would trudge along behind my family as we occasionally went to temples – both local and national (Vaishnadevi). I’m not sure what went through their minds as they dragged me along: perhaps they hoped I would eventually begin to see what they saw; perhaps they thought it was a matter of duty on my part to follow the religion that was stamped against my name; or perhaps they just didn’t want to leave me alone at home.

Whatever the case, I went. And each time, I grew more and more disgruntled. By the time of my final visit at the age of 19 [See: A Surge of Faith], I had made up my mind: I officially hated going to a temple.

***

My house in Bombay is 2 minutes away from a famous church. I pass by it every day, and quite often, I would find myself wanting to walk in. But somehow my previous experience with religious institutions held me back.

One afternoon, returning from an extremely stressful and depressing day at school, I caved in. I carefully stepped inside, sighing in relief as I took in the clean surroundings. I sat down at a pew and felt the silence around me. I could feel the calm spreading around me, as the stress slowly passed out with my tears. Now this I could get used to.

Relaxing, I picked up the book lying in front of me and began browsing through its pages. And the clamminess started to kick in again. Words flew out about submitting and believing and praying, making me extremely uncomfortable. I felt like they were pointing at me, silently screaming: Disbeliever! Disbeliever!

The place no longer felt as soothing and welcoming as before. And so, disappointed, I made my way out.

***

From the moment I set my eyes upon it a year ago, it’s been a burning desire for me to visit Haji Ali. Maybe it was because the song “Piya Haji Ali” brought a smile to my face every time I heard it; maybe the idea of a mosque in the middle of the sea excited me; or maybe I was just hoping that the third time would be the charm.

After one year of wanting, I finally visited Haji Ali with a friend a few weeks ago.

And it turned out to be the biggest disappointment till date. The chaos, the venders, the money-making, and the dirt felt a bit too familiar. That stifling feeling I associated with temples rushed back, and I found myself trudging along as the beautiful soulful image I had built up over the last twelve months suddenly shattered around me.

I found myself tugging at my friend’s hand, urging him to turn around and walk back.

Third time wasn’t the charm.

***

My hunt wasn’t about religion – I gave up on that a long time ago. It was a search for peace. I assumed that was the reason people were drawn to temples and mosques and churches – because they found solace over there.

Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t choose to be an atheist. It wasn’t as though I decided one random day that I choose not to believe in God – I tried hard to feel what everyone around me appeared to feel, to see what they saw, to believe what they believed. But it didn’t happen.

And so, here I am, sitting at my favourite place in the city, wondering what went wrong in my search. Why was it so difficult – if not impossible – for me to find this place of solace? A place where I could clear my head and think, a place where I could let go of my tensions and my stress, a place where I could ask questions and answer some – was that expecting too much?

Others seemed to have found that place. That place of spirituality. Of higher forces. Of energy. Of God.

A place of peace. Inner peace. The kind I’m feeling right now, as I watch the waves crash over the rocks, and hear the ripple of the water, and feel the wind in my face. It’s soothing, relaxing, comforting, inviting – everything I would ever need to bring a smile to my face. I come back here, again and again, just to feel that comfort, that sense of belonging, that feeling of being alive.

***

***

***

I think my search is over.

Musings of a 19-year-old Mind: A Surge of Faith

Some pray to Jesus. Some pray to Allah. Some to Ram. Some don’t pray at all. I’d probably fall into the last category. I don’t pray to anyone. Then again, perhaps ‘pray’ is the wrong word. Belief, or faith, might be more apt. I don’t believe in God – though not from a lack of trying; perhaps from a lack of conviction.

We have often heard stories of atheists who had an encounter that changed their lives forever – an encounter that turned them from strict non-believers to even stricter believers.

I’ve never had such an encounter.

But I did visit a temple.

Nathdwara, a remote pilgrimage site for Hindus, located about two hours from the city of Udaipur, Rajasthan. It holds the shrine of Shrinathji, an image of Krishna. People come from all over the country to pay homage to the shrine. It’s quite a tourist spot.

Tagging along grudgingly with friends who were anxious to visit this temple, tolerating two hours on a hilly road, I reached this destination. At least, that was what the driver told us. Once we got off the car, it was a ten-minute trek through a maze of small streets, bypassing the dozens of keen shopkeepers on the lookout for keener customers, and of course, avoiding the swish of the masters of the roads – the cows.

By the time we reached the entrance, I was even less sure of entering. But seeing the eager look on my friends’ faces, I trudged along.

There were two options – pay a special charge in order to by-pass the crowd and get ahead, or wait in line. Initially, we decided to brave it like everyone else, but the moment we saw the line waiting to go inside, our minds were changed. Trying to suppress the guilty conscious as we passed the waiting crowd, we followed our guide through a route confusing enough to lose each other and never meet again. We went ahead and entered a room filled with comparatively few people.

The guide saw our questioning gazes and told us to wait. So we waited. Then waited some more. It was quiet – very quiet. Suddenly, the doors opened.

And then we heard it.

Ever heard the sound of a dozen elephants charging full speed at a single target? Now imagine that same sound, only instead of elephants, there were people – hundreds of them. Even though we had passes that allowed us to walk beside them through a partitioned route, the sound and sight were, to say the least, frightening. But I calmed myself, thanking whoever it was that introduced the idea of special passes.

Of course, I forgot. This was India.

The partitioning rope was no match for the crowd. People crossed into our section before we even realized what was happening. And then, before I knew it, I was moving. Not by my own will. The crowd surged forward, pushing, squeezing, pulling, stamping, pushing again - I’m sure you understand the pattern. I was pushed in front of the shrine, and before I even had the chance to fold my hands, I was pushed away from the shrine – right up to the exit. And that was it.

That was my visit to the temple.

Enraged and bruised as I was, I decided never to go to a temple again. I found myself mocking this notion of faith, where a person is not even allowed the sanctity of a moment of prayer. It made no sense.

That incident happened a while ago, but I can’t seem to forget it. It still makes no sense. I still don’t understand this notion of faith. But I can’t help but wonder: wonder at this lot of people who travel across the country, weather rough terrains, bear annoying shopkeepers, easily side-step the cows, wait in line for hours, push and get pushed – all this for a single glance.

All this for faith.  

The Morality of Indian Sex

When we talk about consensual sex, whose consent are we talking about?

·         Why is it immoral to teach children about sex, but moral to ostracize those affected by STDs?

·         Why is it immoral to show sex on camera, but moral to force people to take part in pornographic videos?

·         Why is it immoral to share breathing space with a prostitute, but moral to force others into the same profession? 

·     

·         Why is it immoral to celebrate Valentine’s day, but moral to beat up people in order to prevent this?

·         Why is it immoral to have consensual sex before marriage, but moral to be raped after marriage?

A few years ago, when I was doing a research paper in my third year of college, I spent a few days poring over archives related to South-Asian sex and rape. I think I can honestly say they were the some of the most depressing days of my life. The reason? I realized at that point that for a vast majority of Indian women, sex is not about making love or an act of pleasure: it’s a painful chore that they have to endure according to the whim of their husbands. Painful because it was often in the form of abuse and rape. Of course, the government would never call it rape, because once a woman is married, her husband apparently has full rights to do with her as he wishes. A study mentioned that people see marital abuse as “ethically permissible.”

Sometimes I think that in India, marriage is merely a stamp assuring society’s consent to sex. Funny, you’d think the consent of both people involved would be given some priority as well.

The Happiness Quotient

We spend much time berating others

Making judgments both prejudiced and snappy

Why not spend some time looking within

And figure out what truly makes us happy?

• For some people, happiness could mean becoming the CEO of a company.
• For some people, happiness could mean a loving marriage.
• For some people, happiness could mean making a difference in the world.
• For some people, happiness could mean having a lot of money.
• For some people, happiness could mean traveling across the world.
• For some people, happiness could mean working hard all day and coming home to family.
• For some people, happiness could mean partying with friends.
• For some people, happiness could mean spending time with one special person.
• For some people, happiness could mean freedom for their country.
• For some people, happiness could mean the freedom to openly express their sexuality.
• For some people, happiness could mean every child receives excellent education.
• For some people, happiness could mean the end of poverty.
• For some people, happiness could mean feeling the wind on their face.
• For some people, happiness could mean jumping the waves in the sea.
• For some people, happiness could mean looking beautiful.
• For some people, happiness could mean being popular among others.
• For some people, happiness could mean earning enough money to give their parents a comfortable life.
• For some people, happiness could mean playing with their dog.
• For some people, happiness could mean climbing mountains.
• For some people, happiness could mean gazing at the stars.
• For some people, happiness could mean getting their hands on the latest Harry Potter novel.
• For some people, happiness could mean starting a successful business on their own.
• For some people, happiness could mean coming back to their homeland.
• For some people, happiness could mean leaving their homeland.
• For some people, happiness could mean discovering spirituality.
• For some people, happiness could mean knowing their family and friends are safe.
• For some people, happiness could mean writing psychotic pieces of fiction.
• For some people, happiness could mean verbal acknowledgment of their talent or effort.
• For some people, happiness could mean falling off the bed while watching Andaz Apna Apna.
• For some people, happiness could mean eating maggi on the balcony while watching the rain.
• For some people, happiness could mean savouring every single bite of their chocolate cake.
• For some people, happiness could mean skyping with friends after a long time.
• For some people, happiness could mean writing a blog to express their feelings.

Musings of a 19-year-old Mind: Brown and Proud

Written by me a few years ago...

Are you proud to be an Indian?

This was the question posed to our 9^th grade class by a teacher on Independence Day. Clearly, she was expecting a unanimous roar of yes – which is what she got. But what she wasn’t expecting was to find a trickle of students here and there that stayed mutely silent. So when she asked these students to stand up and explain themselves, the class suddenly hushed down, staring at the standing figures in obvious disbelief.

Trying hard to ignore these blatant stares, I mentally began to search for an explanation. But I couldn’t find one – at least, not one that I could put into words. How do you explain something when you don’t quite understand it yourself? It’s not like I had anything against India – definitely not, and I made this quite clear to everyone. But that didn’t automatically mean that I was proud of it either. There was just…no feeling.

Would you feel undeniably proud if you were called an earthling? Does your heart stir up in passion and excitement every time you hear the word ‘Earth’ or ‘World’? Exactly. Mine didn’t either, because to me, India was my entire world. I don’t mean this in a cheesy sort of way, but that is literally how I felt about it. I had never lived out of India, or in a place where I wasn’t surrounded by Indians. To me, foreigners meant anyone who was not Indian. ‘South-Asian’ meant little to me, because my geography classes only covered the categories of continents, countries and cities, none of which include ‘South Asia’. Back then, if someone had called me ‘brown’, I would have been terribly offended. I mean, seriously, brown??? That’s how you would identify me?!?!

Just so you know, that was five years ago. And five years can be a long time.

People often say that it’s easy to criticize something from the outside; you need to actually get involved in it to truly understand it. I worked in the opposite direction. While I was in India, I never understood it. Sure, I understood the population, pollution and poverty crises, but I never actually understood what was there to be proud of. The cows sleeping in the middle of a busy road, oblivious to the traffic jam they had caused?

Not likely.

But stepping away from it all, I missed it – all of it. And it was in those moments of home-sickness that I started to realize what India meant to me. It’s the only place where you find more people walking on the roads than driving on them. It’s where you can eat pav bhaji and pani puri from the street without a care about hygiene issues. It’s where you can spend two days playing cards in a jam-packed train that has already been delayed by ten hours because it chose to stop in the middle of nowhere. It’s where you can switch between Hindi and English in any random conversation without having to think about it.

Basically, it’s home. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Realizing what India means to me, I now feel like I actually have a sense of identity in this world. I can proudly say that I am an Indian, and that pride comes not from ‘culture and heritage’, but from those small insignificant moments that I could have only experienced in India. Call it pride, call it what you will.

I call it being brown. 

Musings of a 19-year-old Mind: A Classy Conversation

A piece of fiction I wrote during the 2nd year of college

**** 

Scene: A hot summer evening in Toronto. A girl (G) comfily sitting with her mother (M). A simple statement…and that’s all it takes.

G: So mom, I was thinking of taking up a job at the gas station around the corner.

M: What?

G: I said, I was thinking of taking a…

M: I heard you. I meant…what?!?! Are you joking?

G: No, I’m quite serious.

M: …

G: Mum? Okay, look. It’s the summer holidays, none of my friends are here in Toronto, I have nothing better to do, might as well earn some money.

M: Oh my God, you really are serious.

G: …

M: Fine. If you really want to work, why not apply to some company? The pay would be much better…

G: Just the pay huh? Nah…I don’t want such serious work; something part-time and laid-back.

M: Okay…so how about a restaurant? There are some really nice ones you could try.

G: I know, but I’ve already done that. I want something different.

 M: Then why not help your father out with his business?

G: Business is really not my thing. Besides, I really want to do something on my own.

M: But it’s a gas station!!!

G: So…?

M: So don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!

G: Oh please don’t tell me it’s that whole ‘you’re a girl’ thing again?!

M: Don’t take that tone with me.

G: Sorry ma…

M:*Exhaling sharply* Alright. No, it’s not because you’re a girl, although that’s definitely a major part of the reason.

G: What’s the remaining part?

M: Don’t you think that working there would be…a little…you know…I mean, there are so many other better jobs out there.

G: Ahh…so that’s the problem. So I’d basically be embarrassing all of you if I worked there?

M: Look. All I’m saying is, what’s the point of studying so much if you’re going to land up in a gas station?

G: It’s just part-time! Plus it’ll be a different experience.

M: What experience could you possibly get from working there?!

G: You think this job would be…too low? Like it’s beneath us in some way?

M: Things aren’t always so black and white. You live in a society, don’t forget that. This isn’t about you or me. People talk!

G: I don’t care about people ma!

M: Well you better start caring if you want to be a part of this society.

G: What happened to dignity of labour?! No one here cares what jobs people do!

M: Maybe the Canadians don’t, but back home where we come from, they still care. You’re an Indian, don’t forget that.

G: I know I am! But…Okay. Do me a favour. Please explain to me what exactly is the problem with me working at a gas station? The fact that I’m a girl, that I have a university degree, or that I’m Indian?

M: It’s not that simple. Maybe it’s one of them, maybe it’s all. I don’t know. Look, I know class isn’t something you agree with, but the reality is that class exists.

G: So that’s it? They can just change dignity of labour into…into…division of labour? That’s no excuse for it!

M: I know it isn’t, but I suppose our society isn’t ready to accept that as yet.

G: Well then they need to be! They can’t just discriminate people based on what job they do! They want to work in high-rise companies yet can’t pick up their own trash or fill their own petrol! And they look down on those that do it for them!

M: Look, you’re over-reacting. It’s not such a big deal.

G: Of course it’s a big deal! How can you-?

M: Okay!!! Enough! Calm down. I know how you feel, and I agree with you. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you start your own revolution out here.

G: I’m not-

M: No more arguing. You’re not working at a gas station. That’s it.

G: But mom-

M: I said that’s it! Just take some other job.

G: …

M: …

G: Mom…?

M: Yes?

G: So can I drive a cab?