I Am A Worshipper

Our family isn't a huge fan of Poojas and the related ceremonies. The occasional visit to the temple on days like Maha-Shivratri and the annual wardrobe showdown during the Durga Puja (aka Navratri) are the only times my family is seen doing something remotely religious. Sometimes, we push our boundaries a little and end up not turning down a few of the invitations to Satyanarayan Kathas that people in Gujarat love putting together quite frequently.

To an outsider, we have almost totally crossed the bridge to join the atheists on the other side. To an outsider, we are not believers.

Years ago, I attended a Ganesh-yagna. It was a really grand event, as far as I could remember. I do not remember the events that lead upto it and the events that followed. However, I do remember registering the sweat buildup on my body and not being able to do anything about it. I remember the chanting, ebbing and flowing in unison, but in different pitches. The words made no sense to me back then. I was far too young to know how to behave in such an austere environment. But I do remember the stillness that had taken over the entire Mandap at a particular point in the Yagna, right after all the chanting had culminated into a soul-touching crescendo and then abruptly seized. I remember how the flames in each of the massive Havan-Kunds had stood still for more than a heartbeat, as if standing in salutation to the Presence that had touched down for the ablution of the praying masses.

The photographer who had documented the entire event later turned up with something that made me believe that what I had felt was part of something so much bigger than my childlike imaginations. That moment when even the birds and the nearby stray animals had hushed up, perhaps to listen for the sounds of the Unheard, the photographer had clicked a picture that had the town talking about miracles for months. In that photo, clear as the sun in a cloudless morning sky, was the very image of Ganpati, made out of the flames leaping out of the main Havan-Kund.

Till this date, everytime I go to that place, that Ashram, I bow down reverentially to touch the spot of this Kund. Not because it had momentarily housed the scorch of the Divine, but because this was the place that helped me believe in my belief.

I don't believe in the God that they made for us to look upto. I don't believe in the God who has pushed the world population to the brink of brutality. I don't believe in the God who told his devotees to consider Him as the only true God. I don't believe in the God who claims to be different in every different religion.

I believe in the Presence that peeks through the easy smile in the eyes of the poorest of the beggars. I believe in the Presence that tears open the overcast skies and showers down blessings on the most desolate of souls. I believe in the Presence that one can catch a glimpse of, in the hand of the person who reaches out to help a person from a 'rival' religious sect. I believe in the Presence who made His Greatness felt through ordinary actions of bravery and kindness, the Presence who, perhaps, the saints had tried to capture all those eons ago in stories and folklores.

I Am A Worshipper. Neither of the many deities that Hindu Mythology has spawned seemingly nonchalantly, nor of the Deity that reigns supreme in the Heaven above.

I Am A Worshipper of the Goodness that hides in plain-sight inside every one of us.