Why do we pray?
I was in third grade when I discovered death. It was through a close reading of the children’s horror fiction series Goosebumps by R.L. Stine. No child escapes an encounter with death unscathed — I could stomach the body-snatching ghosts which disappeared when I looked up from my book, but death remained.
Every Goosebumps story follows the same arc. As you begin to read you are filled with dread, knowing that you must eventually face darkness, as it is a part of your journey. Reading is the only way through.
Naturally I, who knew nothing, asked my father, who knew everything, “What happens when we die?” He replied, “Do you remember what it was like before you were born?” I said no. “Death will be exactly like that,” he said.
It was horrific to fathom having no memory of anyone or anyplace. No mother, no father, no sister. On the covers of Stine’s books it is written, “Reader beware, you choose the scare!” That’s interesting, I thought to myself. I don’t recall choosing any of this.
It was around this time that I began to pray at night, before sleeping. I wish I could say that I prayed for understanding, but the reality is that when we suffer, we pray for a change in what is true, not for a change in ourselves.
The story begins
Recently I helped my family host a Trikala pūje. Pūje or pūjā means ‘worship’ in Sanskrit. The tri- means “three”, and -kala means “time;” hence, a Trikala pūje is a collection of three pūjes performed at dawn, noon, and dusk.
If you know any Indian girls named Pooja, you could try asking them what a pūjā is. If they fail you, you can listen to pundits, gurus, swamis, or priests — there is no shortage of Hindu men with strong opinions on why we perform pūje. A pūje is a prayer ritual conducted by an individual or by a group, informally or as an event. I have frequented pūjes large and small, in the U.S. and in India, since I was a child, and I have watched many an uncle perform a morning pūje known as jappa, a daily ritual for Havyaka Brahmin men. Just like amma’s food and akka’s protection, pūjes have rhythmically provided comfort in my life.
Just like amma’s food and akka’s protection, pūjes have rhythmically provided comfort in my life.
Our Trikala pūje was happening in Benjanapadvu, a desolate but lush area on the outskirts of the rainy sea port of Mangaluru, India. Guests from all areas of the Havyaka havens drove up to the palatial home, which rested atop green farmland and red earth.
Work is an essential aspect of any Indian gathering; partaking in work is partaking in the event. And so we sorted flowers for the gods, served food for the guests, cleaned, cooked, lighted lamps, boiled water, snapped photos, combed and braided hair, washed banana leaves, arranged seating for elders, and swept the floors. My cousin and I captured video footage of each fire ritual, delivered chai for faceless servants waiting out back, and laid colorful straw mats for the priests to nap on between pūjes. She laughed at my sour face as the priests sprawled on the mats, leaving our thankless presence behind for the world of afternoon dreams. I looked around me as mothers tended to children and wives served their husbands whilst joking among themselves. Male cousins fiddled with the sound system and lifted heavy bags of pillows and quilted blankets, while aunts hurriedly served hot paisa for a crowd of indifferent men watching the ongoing pūje.
A Trikala pūje is a prayer to the mother goddess Devi, of whom there are several incarnations: Lakshmi, Parvati, Durga, Saraswati, Sita, Radha, and Kali. Men watched men pray to a supreme woman while the remaining women hovered on the periphery of the holy area, ever ready to serve. None ventured into the prayer circle, lest they pollute the purity of the space with their feminine bodies. Amid the endless cleaning and serving, I found a quiet space in my mind to pray for the invisible.
Late in the hot afternoon, the Puttige swami, the holy leader of the Puttige matha, arrived on his air-conditioned chariot. The pūje attendees, many of whom had only stayed this long for the chance to see him, hummed with religious delight. Softly smiling in saffron robes, the swami stepped onto the ground from his AC-abode. A gaggle of disciples washed his feet with water that they then poured onto their own heads.
He strolled up to the palace, and I wondered how I got here and whether I’d had any choice in the matter. There I stood watching from the front garden as the pūje attendees shuffled in a kind of swirling circle that moved along the red-stoned pathway up to the house. I had never gathered around any person in such a way. The banana tree next to me and I stayed rooted where we were, equally likely to greet the swami in a low namaskara or bow.
As he passed me by on his way to the entrance steps, my notions of abolition and feminism collided against a wave of Hindu patriarchy. What happens to the air in a room when conflicting ideas emanate from its inhabitants? What happens to the spirits of those who hold their tongues for too long? The swami sat down at the pūje as every social mechanism in the room worked its hardest to convince me, the other women, and the non-Brahmins of our distance from God.
Intricate rangoli patterns on the marble ground rested beneath a bed of marigold and magnolia. Fifteen male voices belted Vedic mantras, and I sat enchanted despite myself, filled with a strange, begrudging admiration for a knowledge that had been barred to my kind for centuries. I looked across the room at my uncle and aunt and wondered what they could be praying for from inside their palace. Did they feel great pressure while sitting atop of a self-enforced social hierarchy? Do we pray for release from the very prisons we create?
Was it a lot of pressure to sit atop of a self-enforced social hierarchy? Do we pray for release from the very prisons we create?
The afternoon pūje came to a close, and everyone gathered at the feet of the swami who sat lovingly in a chair, above the crowd. A silence — impressive for this bunch — settled and the swami began his brief lecture. I remained stone-still on the ground, hoping he would educate us on the Vedic chanting from earlier, but honestly I cannot remember if he said anything at all.
He talked about the preservation of Bharatiya samskara, or Indian culture, both in India and abroad, with no clear explanation of what exactly we were supposed to preserve and who was taking it away from us. He praised my uncle, with no mention of my aunt, for hosting this Trikala pūje. He expounded on the importance of teaching diasporic children their mother tongue, and promised to build 128 Hindu temples in America.
I, the only diasporic child in the room, swallowed every word like a bitter pill. I looked around at the Havyakas, my people and the focal point of the diaspora, sitting criss-crossed in rapt devotional attention, and wondered whom I was coming home to.
As I have grown older, I have come to understand that pūjes, and Hindu dharma more broadly, exist in a different political climate in India than in the U.S. The same harmless and deeply personal rituals which I defended on Pacific Standard Time became quite poisonous while on Indian Standard Time.
A grand pūje costs quite a lot of money by Indian standards. You pay all fifteen priests, buy the supplies, and provide breakfast, lunch, afternoon chai, and dinner for your guests, all of which can cost 4–5 lakhs, which is 500,000 rupees. The bottom fifty percent in India earn roughly 50,000 rupees per year. One pūje could cover the costs of a poor Indian household for ten years. Hinduism is a multibillion dollar industry. This does not include the separate economies created by the swamis of different mathas. Of course, an upper middle class devotee may divert the conversation and say, “But surely we spend more on weddings, gold, flight tickets, and homes. Why single out pūjes?” I did not realize religion is a luxury good.
The story ends
One evening, my cousin and I were riding his motorcycle from the family farm to our house in town. As we turned the bend on a dirt road, the dust adding a red haze to an already crimson sun-soaked landscape, he asked, “What’s the point of writing about all that you’ve seen here? You’ve seen how bad it is, why write about it? What does writing do?”
“Writing helps me simplify a complicated world, Aheesha,” I said.
“Sure, but does writing help solve the issue you identify?”
“The writing doesn’t identify any issues,” I said with a smile. “The reader does.”
