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.