I grew up with no religious beliefs instilled in me. My parents had decided not to stuff God and religion down my throat. For a long time I considered myself lucky. I thought I was free to choose, or indeed free enough not to choose at all.

Here I am in Rajasthan, in an unknown place, with unknown people. Last night was a very depressing night.

It was dark. I was in bed, cold and frigid and hopeless. I felt like I was losing confidence in myself. I want to be a writer, work with communities and write about them. Although lately, I’ve felt like I’m not good enough, that my work doesn’t meet today’s standards of literary excellence. I felt extremely alone. In that moment of despair all I wanted was to be able to call someone and hear them tell me I’ll be okay. Of course, you couldn’t do that. Even if I did that and they told me what I wanted to hear, I knew I wouldn’t believe them. They would be saying it just to make me feel better.

In those moments, I wonder if it helps to have blind, unquestioning faith in someone or something. God, maybe? Would it have helped if I could sleep knowing that God will fix this tomorrow? My education and rationality acts as an impediment to instill my faith in something so intangible. I cross-examine, analyze, rationalize and hit myself on the head and tell myself that God does not exist. But right now, all I want is to be able to put my faith in a safe locker and know that it’s going to be okay.
I remember one particular incident that took place during my childhood…

Until I was 12 years old, I used to spend a few weeks in the summer with my cousins. We were 5 super active children. We used to spend most of the day fighting the sun and the earth. Around 6 pm, just as the sky was turning amber, my aunt was yelling from the small kitchen window. It was our cue to drop everything, even if we had just found a diamond, and run inside. She would usher us through with a series of strict instructions. We squeeze into the small bathroom under the stairs, struggling to reach the water pipe. Five of us were laughing and squirming in that little bathroom. At lightning speed, we too would be out. Limbs clean, faces hastily washed, water still dripping from the ends of my older cousin’s hair, we would position ourselves in front of the small puja hall. One of my cousins ​​would light the lamp. Once the lamp was turned on, all other lights in the house were turned off and the smell of pear soap and agarbatti (incense stick) wafted through the air. Until then I was in tune with the events and people around me.

Then they would start the shloka recital. They all knew it by heart. They would press their eyes shut, sit up straight, and chant a stream of Sanskrit words that made no sense to me. I remember the feeling of isolation that stung me. Everyone knew something that I didn’t. When you are 9 years old, the greatest tragedy in life is to be part of a group in which you are the only one who does not know something that everyone knows. Of course, my ego wouldn’t let me show my shame. I sat hunched over, drawing circles of dust on the floor. From time to time, I would try to lip-sync with them, but their recital speed was so overwhelming that after a minute I was resigned to being a mute artist again. At that time I pretended to be indifferent. As if I don’t mind not knowing these shlokas. But he did.

Now even in Rajasthan after a long time I am surrounded by this innocent blind faith once again. The Raika are religious people. They worship Lord Shiva. His heavy consumption of opium was enough to prove this fact. The Raika are also one of the unique communities that believe in hero worship. The most fervently worshiped hero among them is Pabuji.

Pabuji was a Rajput chieftain who belonged to the 14th century. He lived in Kolu, where his older brother ruled. Pabuji is known as the God of cattle. He is a part of Bhomiyo – ‘Cattle Heroes’. Raika camel herders sing songs in praise of Pabuji as they graze his camels. Pabuji’s story is also depicted in Phad’s paintings. Bhopas often spend their lives narrating the stories of Pabuji using the Phad.

Another local hero who has gained divine status among the Raika is Mamaji. I visited a Mamaji temple. It was a small structure that stood quietly on the side of the road. It didn’t seem exciting anyway. Some old men sat inside smoking a chillum and looked at me very skeptically. It was only later, when I was told the story of the Bhopa, that I was fascinated by the small stone structure.

I was told that, every 15 days, on Chandnapak day, full moon day, Bhav would enter Bhopa.

This reference to Bhopa is different from Bhopa, the narrator of the Phad. This is the Bhopa in which God descends every full moon day. No criteria are required to become a Bhopa. Usually, if one is a Bhopa, he finds out when he is around 20 years old. Sometimes it takes longer. The Bhopa does not represent a village or community. It is not subject to castes or colors. However, it is the Raika males who largely have a tendency to be Bhopas.

Every 15 days on Chandnapak Day, the Bhopa visits Mamaji-ki-Mandir (Mamaji Temple). He sits before the idol and begins his prayers. Soon the Bhav enters him. Bhav refers to the state of possession that the Bhopa assumes after Goddess Durga has entered his body. Once Bhav possesses the Bhopa, the entire form of him is altered. His voice changes, he growls and stands up a lot, his body language becomes more authoritative. The Bhopa also follows a ritual in which he whips himself. After this, he assumes the position of him on a stool. He is now ready to face the community.

For the men and women who visit the Bhopa, sitting on the pedestal is not a man but an incarnation of the Goddess herself. Now they take turns consulting the Goddess about each of her concerns. The Bhopa advises them with both philosophical and practical solutions.

For an institutionalized sheep like me, this felt completely superficial. Even as these stories were being told to me, my mind was seething with doubts and suspicions. How could one believe in God and such practices as the absolute truth?

Yet last night as he lay in utter despair, all he wanted was the ability to be able to believe something, anything. I didn’t want to dissect my actions and their consequences. He did not want to think about what the great men of intellect and philosophy had preached. I didn’t want to have that conversation with this practical friend who told me that this was the hard truth of life. I just wanted to look at the sky and know that I’ll be okay. Somehow, I have only seen those men who believe in God be able to do this. I just wanted to close my eyes in prayer knowing that a miracle is bound to happen.

At the end of the day, shouldn’t education, conditioning and learning equip one with hope and confidence more than anything? But at the end of the day, what has all this questioning and rationalizing gotten me?

“He has given me this night of hopeless loneliness. This night is the result of my intellectual capacities,” I thought to myself.