After going to the Grand Parisian Mosque, I couldn’t help but think about the comparisons between “Eastern” and “Western” religions. The Mosque was beyond beautiful: multicolored tiles, intricate sculpture and design, three different gardens, fountains, sunlight, greenery, and so much more. I think back to some of the churches we have gone to with a similar touristy appeal: they too were intricately tiled, sculptured, and painted. However, these places were silent, dark, high-ceilinged, somewhat mournful, and all indoors, for the most part. Some churches had outdoor spaces, but these were usually cemeteries or stone courtyards. The stained glass windows added so much color and brightness, but the spaces were still so enclosed. The mosque had doors, but all were open, and there were many archways in place of doors to signify a passage into a different part of the mosque. There was much to think about after going to the mosque, and much to compare with my own religious upbringing and with Christian institutions. 

I think what struck me most was the difference in volume: the churches we went to were silent, and if you weren’t silent, they would shush you. Even with many people inside the churches, they were silent except for footsteps and whispers. It seemed as though if we spoke too loudly, something would shatter around us. In the mosque, it was so different: people were talking, laughing, children were screaming and playing and crying, the fountains were rushing, and, since it was all open to the outdoors, noises from the city drifted in as well. During prayer, I would imagine the muezzin calling for prayer floats over the ambient sound, and the empty space it leaves is replaced by the rushing water, footsteps, talking, singing, and praying. The difference was incredibly stark to me.

Growing up as Hindu, my experiences in religious spaces were much closer to the mosque than the church. Taking off our shoes to enter the prayer space, gardens and courtyards, outdoor designs with many arches instead of doors were all mirrored in my experiences. Our prayer spaces, in Hindu polytheistic tradition, included idols and statues of our gods draped in South Asian textiles, gold jewelry, flower garlands, and scattered bills and coins at their feet. We would ring a bell as we walked into the temple, or koil in TamilThe idols were usually white or black marble, and the priests would bathe them in milk and water and offer honey, yogurt, fruit, and plants to the gods. We would be given a small bit of food to eat as our gift from god, usually a handful of almonds and kalkandu, or rock sugar, along with saffron water. We would drink some of the water and put the rest on our heads. We would walk around the room with idols, saying our prayers, and do laps around the temple interior; some temples have the gods that represent the planets and moon, of which there are 9 in total, so we would walk around their altar 9 times. I remember making wishes to the nandi, or sacred cow that the god Shiva rides on, by whispering in the ear of the idol. The atmosphere of the temple was one of joy: balavihar is the equivalent of Sunday school, where we would learn stories and prayers and philosophy. I took math classes at the temple for a period of time. Children in traditional clothes were always running around, and the stone floors were covered in mismatched carpets and rugs donated by patrons. Whenever it rained a lot, there would always be a leak in the ceiling; there were free meals on the weekends; at some point, we would all sit down for a ceremony and sing songs and chants together while the priest bathed the idol in milk. There was never a moment of silence in the temple unless there were only a couple families worshiping. 

I have had an interesting relationship with my faith, and have ultimately settled on a spiritual connection to the universe as opposed to organized religion. It is hard, when raised to believe in god, to relinquish that belief. It is somewhat lonely to be left alone and responsible in the world; Hugo and Dickens both believe this too. The existence of some Higher Power or at least trusting the universe to do well by you is something that I need in order to feel grounded. I believe that everything has its own magic, and that includes me as well. It is up to me to take care of my magic and my spirit, but it doesn’t mean I have to do so alone. I have the universe at my side, and the power of everything around me as well. I believe in the power of breathing and grounding and spirit because these are things I’ve retained from my religious upbringing; I do not subscribe to organized religion or religious institutions, however, and I’ve slowly been learning more about my own relationship to What I Can’t Control and how to trust my ancestors to keep me safe. I think that so much of my cultural practice is also involved in religious practice, and I appreciate these things as well; I’m not going to stop celebrating Diwali or Pongal or other things. However, I do believe that the institution is harmful in most ways. I have good memories of my temple, but I wouldn’t force my children to ever go. I have a spirituality and a faith. I believe in the power of my own spirit and the spirits of those around me. I believe that surrounding myself with good energy and reclaiming what has been taken away from me guides me into new forms of spirituality. I believe taking care of my body and mind and being joyful and creative allows me to be more spiritual. I believe that having trust in the cosmic, universal power allows me to live a more grounded life, and I have taken a long time to come to terms with that. I remembered this even more clearly in the mosque: why do they have such gorgeous tiles, plants, fountains and more? And I remembered that so much of spirituality and faith is the relationship to our world and universe and I just breathed in the courtyard for a little bit.