Me & God

 

I was born into a deeply Christian family, where faith wasn’t just practiced—it was a way of life. My maternal grandparents were devoutly Orthodox, the kind of believers who lived and breathed the Church. They recited prayers throughout the day, attended Holy Mass without fail, and found comfort and strength in the pages of the Bible. Naturally, growing up in their home meant I was steeped in this spiritual environment from the very beginning.

My grandmother, in particular, played a huge role in shaping my early beliefs. She would narrate Bible stories with such love and reverence that they felt more real than fairy tales. She never missed a chance to gently encourage—sometimes insist—that I attend Mass daily. Her dream was simple but powerful: she wanted me to become a priest.

And for a long time, I believed that too.

After school, while most kids rushed home to play or rest, I rushed to church. That sacred space felt more like home than anywhere else. I became involved in everything—from altar service to youth gatherings. Catechism classes were my favorite; I didn’t just attend them—I thrived in them. I consistently ranked first in Sunday school exams, won prizes, and quickly became a familiar face to everyone in the parish.

Church was my world. Sunday wasn’t just another day—it was my favorite day of the week. I would count down to it like others would for birthdays or holidays. I was actively involved in VBS (Vacation Bible School), and in 10th grade, I was appointed as the leader of our Sunday school—making me the youngest person ever to hold that position in our parish. People admired me. Some even called me “the future priest.” To many, I wasn’t just a student or a volunteer—I was their own child, their hope for the Church’s future.

Looking back, it felt like everything pointed in one direction.

But life has its own way of unfolding.

God, it seems, had a different plan for me.

Then came 2020.

The world shut down. Churches closed. Life, as we knew it, changed.

The COVID-19 pandemic brought with it long months of lockdown and isolation. Like everyone else, I was confined within the four walls of my home. For someone like me—who found solace in the sacred silence of the church, in the rhythm of hymns and rituals—this sudden disconnect was heartbreaking. Holy Masses shifted online, but it wasn’t the same. I missed the smell of incense, the echo of prayers, the sense of belonging. For the first time, I felt spiritually distant. Alone.

But as days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, something unexpected happened—introspection. With all the usual distractions gone, I began exploring things I had never given time to before. Until then, my world of entertainment was mostly limited to Malayalam and Tamil cinema. But during the lockdown, I plunged into Hollywood films.

And that’s where the spark of questioning began.

One movie in particular stood out—The Da Vinci Code. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. It didn’t just entertain—it challenged. For the first time, I was confronted with alternative narratives about faith, history, and belief. And for the first time in my life, a quiet but bold question stirred within me:

Does God really exist?

From there, the questions flowed like an unstoppable current.
How was the world really formed?
Is the Bible absolute truth—or one version of it?
What if science is right about evolution and creation?
What if… everything I believed in was just tradition?

I brought these doubts to my catechism teachers, hoping for clarity. But their answers, though sincere, felt rehearsed—lacking the depth I was now desperately searching for.

So, I turned to the internet.

I started watching debates, documentaries, and atheist videos on YouTube. They didn’t shy away from difficult questions. They confronted belief systems with reason, logic, and scientific arguments. And disturbingly… they made sense.

Slowly, silently, and steadily—my faith began to unravel.

I stopped attending online Masses. Prayers became mechanical, then absent. What began as a flicker of doubt grew into a fire of skepticism. I was no longer just asking questions—I was rejecting answers that once gave me peace.

By the end of lockdown, the transformation was complete.

I stood in front of the mirror one day and whispered something I never thought I’d say:

“I don’t think I believe in God anymore.”

I had become… an atheist.

When college began, life took me to Chennai.

It was my first time away from home—away from my church, my family, and the structured religious life I had known since childhood. During my years in Chennai, I never once attended Holy Mass. It wasn’t out of rebellion—it just no longer felt meaningful the way it once did.

Still, whenever my grandparents called, their first question was always the same:

“Did you go to church today?”

And each time, I lied.

I couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing them, of letting them know that the boy they once saw as a future priest was now drifting farther from the Church. But every time I said “yes,” a quiet voice inside whispered back:

“Are you sure you’re on the right path?”

That inner conflict—between faith and logic—was constant. There were moments when reason seemed to silence all belief. But then, there were also moments… moments where I felt something beyond explanation. A force. A presence. A divine whisper in the chaos of life. Some might dismiss it as luck or coincidence, but I couldn’t. Deep down, I knew—there was something.

Not the God of one religion or one name, but a force that binds everything together. A cosmic unity. We call it by many names: Jesus, Shiva, Krishna, Allah… but what if they’re all reflections of the same light?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized: religion doesn’t divide us—people do. For centuries, humans have used religion as a tool—not of love, but of power. Politics in the name of faith is nothing new. And it's this manipulation that leads to hatred, violence, and division.

In my third year of college, I began seeking wisdom beyond Christianity. I read the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Bhagavad Gita, and explored the Quran. I listened to podcasts, watched documentaries, read ancient stories and scriptures. The deeper I went, the more I saw a striking truth:

At their core, all religions teach the same values—truth, compassion, humility, love.

No religion instructs its followers to hate.
No scripture demands violence.
People distort them. Politics exploits them.

Terror groups like Al-Qaeda or ISIS don’t represent Islam. They twist the Quran to justify their own agenda, stripping away the beauty and depth of the faith. They’ve used religion as a weapon—executing minorities, suppressing women, and spreading fear.

And it’s not just in one faith. Even in ancient India, systems like varna and caste were used to divide and control. Dalits and other marginalized communities were pushed down, not by the true spirit of religion—but by those who sought power through it.

Today, the story continues.

Ethnic conflicts, communal riots, religious intolerance—it’s not God behind it. It’s greed. It’s control. It’s politics.

Some people still want us to fight each other, so they can rule over us.

But I’ve come to believe something different.

Truth exists in all faiths. The divine speaks many languages. And above all, we are all connected—not by our religions, but by our humanity.

After college, I returned home—a place once filled with prayer, hymns, and spiritual certainty. But something had changed in me. I no longer felt the urge to step into a church. Not out of defiance, but because it no longer felt necessary.

I still believe in God—but not the kind that’s confined within four walls or bound by rituals. I began to feel that visiting church had become just that: a ritual. A habit, a rule, a social expectation. People attended Mass out of obligation, not connection. During Holy Mass, I noticed how distracted everyone seemed—lost in their own thoughts, scrolling on phones, or simply waiting for it to end.

I couldn't help but ask myself:
What’s the point of showing up physically if your soul isn’t present?

So, I slowly began to distance myself.

And people noticed.

The same people who once embraced me now whispered behind my back.
“Aswin has lost his way.”
“He’s in bad company.”

It hurt—because these were the very people I grew up with, prayed with, laughed with. They began to avoid me. I became a stranger in a place that once felt like home. But instead of clinging to what was lost, I chose to move on.

I began exploring other ways to connect with the divine. And that’s when I found meditation.

At first, it was difficult—sitting still with my own thoughts. But with time, it became a sanctuary. A calm, still space within me. A place where anger melted away. Where clarity emerged. Where peace lived. I started meditating daily, and soon, the transformation was noticeable. Even my parents saw the difference. I was calmer, more reflective, more grounded.

With the beginning of my UPSC journey, solitude became my closest companion. I would often sit quietly, letting my mind wander into memories, regrets, past mistakes. At times, it was painful. But it was also healing. That silence helped me confront my immaturity, my insecurities. And slowly, I began to understand myself better.

I started journaling—writing down my thoughts, emotions, realizations. It was like talking to my truest self.
I began to travel alone,
to watch movies alone,
to dine alone.

And in that aloneness, I found something sacred—a connection to a higher power. Not through hymns or scriptures, but through stillness, awareness, and self-reflection.

My parents were worried. They couldn’t understand why I avoided social circles, why I preferred solitude. But for me, being alone didn’t mean being lonely. It meant being aligned—with myself and something greater.

I no longer believe in rituals. I don’t follow the traditional paths laid out by religion. To me, they feel like man-made constructs—created to organize, to control, to preserve tradition. But the divine? The divine is limitless.

He—or It—has no name.
He can be Jesus, Shiva, Vishnu, Allah—or none of them at all.
I don’t care for the name anymore.
Because I’ve found Him within me.

Meditation, solitude, journaling, solo travel—these have become my prayer. My temple. My holy ground.

I am not religious anymore.
I am spiritual.
And through that path, I have become a better person.

God is not somewhere far above. He is inside me. And I am learning to nurture Him every single day.