In today's fast-paced, interconnected world, we are constantly bombarded with cover corner of the globe. Social media platforms have become breeding grounds for sensationalism, with users vying for attention through shock and awe tactics. The more outrageous and provocative the content, the more likely it is to go viral, eliciting emotions ranging from awe to disgust. This constant barrage of shocking content has left many of us tired and our senses numbed to life's ordinary and mundane aspects.
I was acutely aware of the expectations this culture of recreational outrage created as I set out to narrate my journey into disbelief. Any story worth telling had to be filled with bombastic revelations, dramatic confrontations, and life-altering epiphanies. Yet, my journey was not marked by any of these elements. I had no harrowing tales of persecution, no bitter arguments with religious zealots, and no moment of transcendent realisation that led me to abandon my faith. I remember the first time I started having doubts about a creator God. I remember telling my mother about my lack of faith, and all I got in return was, 'Fine, now eat your breakfast'. My story is shared by many sceptics in India-a slow, gradual process of questioning and introspection, taking place against the backdrop of a society that largely accepts diverse viewpoints and beliefs regarding the question of belief in divine claims.
While my story may not be the stuff of Hollywood blockbusters or viral social media posts, it is worth telling.
In a world where we are constantly bombarded with extremes and hyperboles, there is something to be said about the quiet, unassuming journeys that shape our lives in more subtle ways. These stories frequently go untold because of sensationalism's deafening clamour. But in their simplicity and authenticity, they offer a glimpse into the human experience that is both relatable and profound.
As it does for many, my journey into disbelief began with questions. I was raised in a religious, but not very ritualistic, household. My father is a murti pujak (icon worshipper), and my mother comes from a staunch Arya Samaji family. I wish I could say how, like many atheists from the Western world, I was taught about the importance of faith and the power of prayer. However, as I grew older, I grappled with doubts and uncertainties. How, I wondered, did a benevolent and all-powerful deity allow for so much suffering and injustice in the world? How could I reconcile the teachings of my faith with the ever-expanding body of scientific knowledge that seemed to contradict so much of what I had been taught? But the fact is that nothing like that happened to me. My exposure to Hinduism was Diwali puja, especially Navratri puja, where we become strictly vegetarian for nine days every year and a Ramayana recitation (रामायण पाठ) that would happen at my uncle's house. We would go to temples to pray on and off, but I would not pray daily in our temple inside our house.
Growing up, God was like an outsourcing agent to me. I would outsource my 'problems' to God, like 'Please ensure that I get good grades', 'Sachin Tendulkar scores a hundred', or 'Mike Tyson wins a fight'. I was not scared of God or in awe of God. I did not read religious texts as a child. The only religious mantras I knew were the ones my mother taught me as my daily prayers.
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