Religion and Worship

“Are you religious?” she asked. I answered, “Depends on what you call religion. For me, my religion is my relation to the essence of every element in this universe.” She replied, “How do you worship then? Tell me about your God.”

I said, “Let me tell you a story.

It was a wintry night in the foothills of the Himalayas. A dark, dense, forested region. For some unknown reason, I preferred the foothills and the valleys to small towns on higher altitudes. The place belonged to a kingdom of innumerable variety of uncountable forest species. A journey amidst the forest would mean being witness to the magical phenomenon of dark roads being lighted up by millions and billions of fireflies. A kind of welcome, any stranger would be grateful to experience. My only shelter was a tent with a transparent rooftop, located right beside the river and amidst some massive rocks. Since it was off-season for tourism to these places, I had limited company. To be more precise, limited in quantity but unlimited in quality. Surrounded by a few human voices from the caretakers of the place, rumours of distant lands and lost civilisations whispered by the continuous breeze and a mesmerizing sonata played by the gushing river rushing down the patient mountains. One cannot feel alone in such a scenario, amidst all the play of stillness and movements that one is addictively drawn to.

A few books on my bed were the only witness to my shivers as I lay with my corporal-self wrapped up with three layers of woollen garments, one of which was stitched by my grandmother. I felt bad expressing out their incapability of not fulfilling their purpose, although their united effort could not be completely ignored. Soon, I realised the books were not the only witness. Suddenly, I noticed a black-furred tarantula lay comfortably on the desk beside my bed. The smirk on its face and the lack of empathy towards my condition was an inevitable observation. I decided to focus on my reading filled with the conviction that somehow a distraction will help me cope up with the situation. After a while of conscious effort to read a few lines, it occurred to me as a useless effort. I was struck by another idea then. I called out for the caretaker to ask for some wood logs. The need for a bonfire in that cold seemed like a good thought making me aware of the primitiveness of that thought itself.

The effort proved useful with respect to my initial problem of shivering in the cold weather. Satisfied with my decision and my effort into making a bonfire, I took up a chair and placed it near the fireplace. I turned towards the book again and settled myself comfortably around the warmth of the fire, determined to finish my reading for the day. After a few moments, I realised how impossible it was to focus on anything while one sits near the fire. The sparks, the flames and the constant change in the process captured my thoughts every instant and I couldn’t resist myself from imagining it as some French Baroque Dance. The sonata played by the river was already shifting to a transition of the third movement with an increased tempo to build tension for the upcoming climax. The primary theme sounded very familiar to me as I remembered an old piece ‘The Tempest’ by Ludwig Van Beethoven, with the third movement resembling notes in D minor. The whispers of the breeze were louder than ever, gradually taking the structure of cantata. As I listened carefully, the narrative spoke of worlds far and beyond, of creations and destructions, of stars and moons, of galaxies and universe and when I listened to all of what was happening more intently, I must say that one cannot help but be in awe of the entire synchronization, as if the perfection was a consequence of infinite rehearsals between the fire, the river, the winds, the mountains and the massive rocks. Consumed by my senses and imagination, I thought of Parmenides and wondered if he had seen this, could he still say that all senses are illusionary.

I could not read that night but that did not matter. What I experienced spoke a thousand more words than a single word presented in a book. I slept around the fire, in the womb of the performance. I did not feel the need to overcome anything, I wasn’t feeling cold either. I was mesmerized and hypnotised and I fell asleep like a child. I remember I could sleep really well as a kid. I guess it was because I was told goodnight stories or I would just sleep listening to lullabies. It was only a sense of trust and security that would put me off to sleep. That day I fell asleep the same way with the feeling of a new born in a womb.”

She said, “That sounds like a beautiful experience but you did not answer my question. I guess you got distracted.” I showed her the poster of a famous painting named ‘Persistence of Memory’ and asked her, “Do you know this painting?” She jumped enthusiastically and cried out loud, “Yes! That’s Dali! Salvador Dali! I find it beautiful!”