| Losing My Religion | | Print | |
| Written by Raj Bagga | |
| Sunday, 03 February 2008 | |
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After a tiring weekend, a late dinner and a fast drive to SFO, at half past dark, I boarded a plane bound for Singapore – my first trip to the Far East. Feelings of anticipation, about the exotic locale, dread, about the upcoming work, exhilaration, about the unknown and from the caffeine, and exhaustion, from having worked the previous 15 days, and from the caffeine, were swirling in my mind and body as I walked into courteous but generic business hotel. In spite of the bright morning sun, my body knew it was almost midnight on the other side of the world, and I had only slept a few hours on the plane. Even then, I had to send a few emails. Before I realized it, an hour had passed and, recognizing the need, I jumped into the shower. After the shower, I was ready to explore the city. The concierge gave me directions to India town and cautioned that it was a long, 30 minute walk in the heat. I was undaunted – one cannot explore a city from the inside of a cab, and if the locals could bear the heat, so could I. I walked through the business district and into the National Library which I had seen on the ride from the airport. It was a beautifully designed and a welcome respite from the heat. After a few sips at the water cooler, I went back into the heat, passed through the busy and festive Chinese open-air market and into India town. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. For the most part, Singapore’s India town consists of a few cheap, unkempt restaurants and many small shops filled with mass produced junk, likely made in China. I encountered tourists and locals engaged in that most sacred of rituals, desperately searching for that ephemeral bargain, including that priceless brass Buddha (well, not really priceless, rather, three for $10), Chinese fans (same price), “Hello Kitty” watches (“Three for $10!!”), and the like. I stopped counting after I reached five on the number of signs stating “Cheapest [or Best] Prices in Singapore – Guaranteed”. I see stores like this everywhere and often wonder how they remain profitable selling the same junk to experienced travelers. In India town, I had an epiphany that provided the answer – people, regardless of their intellect, class, and other such traits, love to buy junk. Disgusted as I was, I kept walking, hoping for something better just a little further ahead and, indeed, there was…
Approaching the brightly colored entryway, I was stricken by the almost festive, yes, festive atmosphere. Amidst the hundreds of shoes – mostly paired but lacking any Manolos, people of all ages, nationalities and religious beliefs were scurrying into the South Indian temple to listen to and sometimes join in the bhajans (songs) emanating from within and spreading into the neighborhood.
In the center of the temple was a large mandir (temple) running to the ceiling. Smaller mandirs filled two of the corners. A third corner – separated from the temple, housed the volunteers. The area near the fourth corner opened to pathway and a series of outdoor mandirs. Tables and benches overflowing with lighted diyas (earthen lamps) lit the pathway. Sitting at the foot of the entryway to the diya-mandir pathway was the pujari (the woman one leading the bhajans). This was unusual because typically men lead the bhajans. Most of the women – about 150 or so – were sitting as close as they could get to the pujari. A few young teenagers and children were sprinkled in the group but most were over 35, and with the maternal look only seen in mothers and grandmothers. Though each sang with her own voice, collectively, their song resonated harmoniously through the temple and beyond. Their singing seemed to reflect the passion within their hearts. The men, fewer in number, were sitting in the opposite corner and though quieter, were equally engaged. Most were singing quietly, humming or nodding silently. Their calm demeanor, however, couldn’t mask their devotion. If the women were passionate in their display, the men – even the boys – were stoic, but the women and the men were equal in their piety and faith.
Along with the other tourists, I was entranced. The Japanese woman got some bills from her husband, made a donation for a diya, and joined a young mother who, with her daughter, was sitting on the floor. She asked the Indian woman about the rituals involving the diya. Carefully (the daughter was very close), she lit the diya and led her husband towards the diya-mandir pathway. I don’t know why but I followed. The Japanese woman was not merely meticulous in following the ritual instructions she had received; she was also respectful and pious.
As for me, I could no longer bear it; it was as if I wasn’t making the decision but rather was compelled into it. I approached them and asked where they were from, what they believed, why they had come to the temple, why the woman had participated in the rituals. Most of the answers were as expected – while they weren’t on any sort of visionquest, they had heard about the temple and the devotion that was evident in the people that prayed there. She had participated in the rituals for two different reasons. First, in a “when in Rome” sort of way, as a sign of respect for those that prayed there. And, second because she, like her husband, truly believed that all religions were manifestations of a universal belief system, and worship for the same god or gods. Then, unsurprisingly, they asked me what I was doing there. I didn’t know how to respond. Here I was, an avowed atheist 10,000 miles from home and yet, I had chosen to spend my one free afternoon in a temple. I didn’t want to admit that I was an atheist, and even less that in spite my atheism, I too believed that the religions and religious beliefs, were more alike than different. I mumbled that I often visited temples and churches wherever I traveled. Although this was true, until this day my reasons for visiting temples had always been oriented towards art and architecture; indeed, as a traveler, I had never walked into a temple during any type of service. I escaped by thanking them for observing the Hindu rituals.
Somewhat emboldened, I walked over to the three Aussie women who had been in the temple for at least 20 minutes. Initially taken aback by my questions, they never really warmed up but still answered a few questions. They had been walking through India town, paying homage to the one universal religion – Shopping & Consumerism®, but had been drawn into the temple by the singing. Though Christians, they respected other faiths. They enjoyed the interactive (their word, not mine) nature of the rituals, and explained that their typical experience consisted of silently sitting through a sermon. The women’s song had led them to light diyas and stay in the temple for almost 30 minutes. I thanked them for their answers and contributions, which was enough for a few Hello Kitty watches, and moved on. I did not go up to the Englishman because he was too busy taking pictures. He must have snapped at least 50 photographs in 15 minutes. I don’t know why but I was offended by his actions and inactions – maybe it was that he hadn’t contribute a single penny. More likely it was that though he observed and recorded what he had seen, he failed to experience or appreciate it. I wanted to ask him what he had hoped to capture in photographs. I wanted to confront him by asking whether he was simply a spectator visiting a circus. I simply wanted to know why he was so disrespectful. It seemed to me that although he had come a long way, he had failed to take that last, most important step. He had utterly failed to appreciate what he had seen and heard, and had failed to live in the moment. And that offended and angered me.
The anger towards the Englishman made me think about what I was doing in the temple. Though I hadn’t joined in the singing, understood a single word of the bhajans or lighted a diya, I had been a part of what was happening in the temple. I wasn’t a participant but neither was I a mere spectator. I had watched, listened and contributed but most importantly I had appreciated that moment in time. The Japanese couple, the men in the corner, the hundreds of diyas, the Aussie shoppers and especially the women and their song were all part that moment. Now, for the locals, this wasn’t a specific moment but a regular part of their lives. Though I can’t prove it, I knew that most of the locals came to the temple several times a week. For them, the bhajans, diyas and prasad were everyday life. Their culture and faith compelled them to come to the temple every day. Not simply come to the temple, but also to partake in the experience. The daily practice, whether viewed as religious or cultural, made each become part of something greater than their individual selves. Maybe that is the power of religion and faith: the ability to join people – even when they act individually – such that their distinct actions meld into collective action. And this is true, I imagine, universally. I suppose it doesn’t matter what you believe, it just matters that you believe. Even if I didn’t understand this completely, I was beginning to appreciate it. That was the true epiphany on my trip. I looked at my watch and realized an hour had passed. Many people had come and gone. Still, the women’s song remained as strong and as passionate as ever, and the temple was as festive as when I had entered. At that moment, I understood that it wasn’t just their song spreading into their neighborhood, it was their faith. I found my shoes and walked back thinking about it all. It was a wonderful feeling.
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| Last Updated ( 2008-03-01 23:25:52 ) |
I am an avowed atheist, it is my mantra and belief system.