I was not born
a non-believer. Not by a long shot.
“Umaachi
Kaapathu!” Those were the first two
words that I remember using as a child before any prayers or hymns were taught
to me. It translates into, “God, protect
us.” When I was getting out of my toddler
years, I was taught a few prayers, which I would religiously (pun intended, I suppose!)
chant every morning. Most, if not all,
of my close family members were – they still are – deeply religious and ritualistic
people. Accompanying them to temples and
watching them perform rituals, at home or otherwise, one thing was abundantly
clear to me. They derived a deep sense
of peace, protection, security, and serenity when they invoked a supreme power. I remember sometimes when I accompanied my maternal
grandmother to her favorite temple, she would be
a picture of tranquility, even in a crowd.
Up until I was
13, I had a kind of superficiality around prayer and religion which was
probably par for the course for kids. My
visits to the temple seemed to coincide with the timing of exams! The sweets and savories on festivals were made
available only after certain rituals were finished. It was always worth the wait (but I am not
sure it was worth the weight, given my puppy fat). But I do not think I had any strong feelings
either way about a supreme power. It was
a harmlessly transactional relationship that I had with God. I was quite a good student till I was in high
school. I was a healthy and happy child,
raised in a safe and loving home. There
were no untimely life events that had any adverse impact on me. All was fine and dandy until March 20, 1994.
On that day, my maternal grandpa died in a freak accident, aged 61. I have written about him at length in other
blog posts. So, I shall not dwell on him
here. But his death certainly shook whatever
little foundation that I had built around the almighty. Suddenly tough questions started to pop
up in my mind. His death seemed
completely unfair to me. The emotional
scars it left on my family, especially on my grandma, were extremely difficult to
digest or comprehend at that age. The
most harrowing question that I had no answer to – I still don’t – was the
following: why did the “Umaachi” who was supposed to “kaapathu” our family, let
us down? Since I didn’t quite verbalize
them, nobody in my family knew what was really going on in my mind until much later. I could, of course, see that his death did
not have a negative impact on the theism of my family. Their foundations had been much stronger and
deeper to withstand this storm that shook mine. Their belief arguably helped them deal with the devastation.
In my early twenties, I went through a phase when I said to myself that I would pray for others sincerely, even if not for me. It was less altruistic than it sounds. I had this simplistic theory that went, “God, please do good things for good people. I am not going to pray for myself because I don't want to get mad at you if things don't turn out the way I want them to.” For instance, when my mentor Dr Jim Jamison was first diagnosed with cancer, I used to go to the temple every week to pray for his health. I used to derive a sense of satisfaction not only while executing the routine but also sharing with Dr Jamison that I was praying for his recovery fervently. He would smile and thank me for my effort. But again, the transactional element never left my worship. It had just taken a different form. (Dr Jamison sadly died in 2014.)
In the mid-2000s,
I had spoken at length with a family member about wanting to do yoga. This was because I had introspected enough to
know that I would benefit from something that would slow down my mind and
silence it, even if ephemerally. Since
he had been actively practicing a style of yoga for a while, he willingly
shared information about it. I took an
introductory course subsequently. And thankfully, yoga has become a part of my daily routine till date. I am writing about yoga in this piece about
belief and faith because meditation offered me a glimpse of what I truly needed
– a tool that enables me to be meditative.
A few years ago, a well-wisher of mine urged me to be take the time to find out what truly worked for me in the realm of spirituality and stick to it and find myself within a framework that suited me. I realized that it takes tremendous amount of mental strength to be an atheist. The conversation urged me to search for things that could give me strength amidst tough times. I gradually began to realize that I truly felt liberated whenever I invested the time in things that brought me a sense of peace while dissociating with outcomes. Yoga, for sure. Watching films that are deep and deliberately paced tales of good people going through ups and downs yet finding a sense of closure at the end. (Yes, Rhythm, I am talking about you.) Reading and writing non-fiction, since they give me a framework to organize, verbalize and sometimes even purge my thoughts on various topics. Listening to soft, well-written music. All of these help me find peace. But above everything, the one constant calming influence in my life is people.
With
respect to people, I realized that my lived-in experiences mirror what Kamal Hassan describes in his film, Anbe Sivam. At multiple instances in the film, if you
remember, he says something to the effect of, “that goodness of heart – that is
God.” I am glad that the film
exists. Because the line helped me make
sense of why it is that I think the world of the marvelous people who form my
support system. They help me achieve a
sense of equanimity and help me build the inner strength that I need, during
tough times. And they help me experience a quiet sense of
joy when good things happen. And most
importantly, they enable me to be an effective part of the support system for
people who have afforded me the privilege.
As much as I have been a non-believer for the past several years, I do respect the deep and genuine faith that believers have. The devout believers that I have seen throughout my life, pray, not always with outcomes in mind. My father, for instance, wrote 108 verses (in thamizh) that I had assumed was in praise of a particular deity. But when I read it carefully, I realized that it was a supplication, not for material things, but for the enablement of high thinking and a search for lofty ideals. The very first line goes, “agandhai azhipone poatri.” It translates to, “Oh, the destroyer of self-pride.” I have been listening to Punjabi kirtans lately. And a particular hymn goes, “jhuthe maan kaha kare” which translates into, “why do you indulge in false pride?” I was struck by the uncanny similarity between the two lines and how two supposedly devotional lines are actually about heightened self-realization.
I realized that for deeply pious people, sure, there may be rituals performed to, say, counter certain negative events, either predicted or encountered. But a lot of time, they pray because prayer gives their mind the silence, the quiet, the peace amidst all the chaos that fate might hurl at them. Their supreme confidence in a being above, gives them the power to keep themselves going, knowing that things will take a turn for the better. They are the ones that are equally grateful and grounded when good things happen to them. They feel a divine intervention when positive life events beckon. It is just that, given how certain pivotal life events shaped my thinking, I can only admire their piety from an arm's length, co-existing peacefully, no more, no less.
A friend recently asked me what I experience when I visit temples along
with believers. My response was, “I am
unmoved.” Prayer does not work for me
because I am unable to get out of a transactional mindset – old habits die
hard, I suppose – when I see God take a ‘form’ in temples. Meditation works for me because there is a sense
of formlessness. When there is not a
visible concretization, say in the form of a deity, I am able to look inward
and search for inner peace. An inner
peace that will enable me to find the best version of myself. I am no longer in a transactional mindset. I am able to let go. I am able to be more accepting of the
vagaries of fate, while I try to shape my life’s narrative focusing on what I
can control. Does all this mean that I have
achieved perfect emotional balance? Not
by a long shot. But I haven't stopped trying.
