Dear Readers,
I received a very positive feedback to my column on Ismaili Khojas from last week. It was a small attempt to recognise the extraordinary community and I am glad it worked. This week, I am going to go off topic just this once.
CB Patel and I make it a point to speak over the weekends. We talk about work, we talk about politics, we talk about topics I could feature in this space. Sometimes, we talk about nothing at all. The art of nothingness, is a special feat in itself. You know what I mean. A couple of minutes of random musings. CB is a man of many words. I, merely an enthusiastic novice.
My rendezvous with ABPL began back in 2015. CB, and all my colleagues have seen me grow in the last four years. While I mostly agree with them on various conversation-starters, there is one topic on which I have maintained firm silence. Faith. Who is my God? The first time I spoke with CB over a phone call in 2015, he asked me who I believed in. A Catholic-educated Hindu Malayalee born and brought up in Gujarat, I either worshipped a whole community of Gods, or none of them. I said I don't worship any one. Respecting my answer, CB moved on from the topic.
This weekend, over our weekly discussion, we spoke on an array of subjects. I shared my experiences in Canada and as a worrying father figure, he gave suggestions. The conversation drifted from one topic to another and eventually CB mentioned one of his favourite Gujarati hymns 'Mari Naad Tamare Haath Hari Sambhaljo Re'. He said he isn't worried about life. After all, he has an “agreement” with Lord Shiva and they have his life in their hands. The phone call ended shortly after this conversation and left me thinking.
In whose hands have I placed my life? I grew up in a joint family. Lost my mother at a very young age. Religion never came up during family discussions. Mostly because we were a pack of atheists and believers living together in mutual respect for the other person's feelings. My mother was a religious person. However, I don't recall a single moment when she forced or pushed my brother or I to accompany her to her weekly temple visits. She had this unspoken regard for boundaries when it came to faith. Boundaries that were set by herself.
In retrospect, she left it upon us to choose. There is a God, there is no God. Over a decade has passed since she left us and I still wonder. After my call with CB, I called my brother in India. How strange is it that even after years of growing up together, I still don't know whether he believes in the Almighty. Four years younger to me, my brother is a tad too mature for his age. Losing a parent at 14 does that to people.
I asked him if he is a believer. After a brief pause, he replied, “Honestly, I do not know yet.” I framed my question a little different this time. I asked him, “Do you WANT to believe in God?” This time he replied, “Well, of course.” I knew not to poke any further. However, his answer left me unsatisfied. I wondered if I wanted to believe in God. In every single adversity I have faced, I have rationalised the pros and cons, the reasons, the consequences. I know nothing else. Ringing up the Man in the clouds has never struck me. Every time I have crossed a milestone, I would analyse yet again. If the sorrows are mine, so are the joys.
Ironically, I am married to an overtly religious Gujarati. He prays every morning. He observes the Hindu calendar like his life depends upon it. In fact, he even carried around the picture of a deity during our entire visa process. I wasn't surprised. I knew what I was getting into. Like my mother, and CB, my husband never asks ME to join him nor does he preach the advantages of having faith. On my part, I support his beliefs and know not to comment on his ways.
I don't believe my questions will ever be answered. May be God hasn't called upon me. Do I have faith? I would like to say yes. But whom have I placed this faith on? I have no clue.
