INDIA


Across the incredibly dense country that is India, there is a Hindu festival every year on the 4th of March to celebrate the god Shiva. In Hindu culture, Shiva is the god of creation and destruction, usually depicted while meditating.
Upon arrival to the festival, our auto-rickshaw driver instructed us to leave our shoes in the rickshaw in order to respect the local culture. The sand surrounding the temple was still warm from the falling sun as we walked through the festival gate. We were abruptly greeted with the sounds of laughter, clapping, and music, unlike anything I had ever heard before. The bellowing voice boomed through speakers accompanied by the traditional sounds of tabla drums, and flutes. It sounded similar to the wailing of Islamic prayer. The musician worked his way up an incremental scale, melodic runs intertwined.
As we walked through the temple opening, colorful flower garlands hung from every possible surface. Red, green, yellow, and white flowers, swung in the gentle breeze. Rows upon rows of families surrounded the temple, each tending to their oil lamps. Every gold lamp had a plastic bottle of palm oil next to the lamp, to refuel when the time came.
Walking around the corner revealed a long line of men, women, and children. The majority of the people waiting were shirtless men wearing orange longyis. Our rickshaw driver said, “ Soon, they will all roll around the temple, as an offering to the god, Shiva. They are fasting” With a glance, one could see a large neon light board with the face and body of Shiva glittering on it. Children were paraded around by their relatives, wearing elaborate sequined dresses and traditional shirts, heavy charcoal around their eyes. Our rickshaw driver pointed them out, “my niece,” he would say. He was related in some way to every person we came across. As we walked deeper into the temple festivities, a group of three boys came up to us. They started talking to us, to practice their English, encouraged by their elders to do so. The driver joked and pushed the shoulders of the boys, laughing with them. “They live in my same village,” the driver explained. I marveled at the connectedness of the community, all brought together by their core beliefs. It was beautiful the way everybody knew everybody, and how everyone had some relationship. When you stepped into the temple, you immediately felt like you had also been consumed into a community. A community so open and accepting that even someone from a completely different world would be welcomed instantly. Suddenly, the atmosphere made so much sense. Everybody is welcome, and it is because of that the community is so unique. I realized that the core beliefs weren’t the religion, so much as the heart and hospitality of the small village in India.
Even though you could feel eyes trailing you wherever you went, you knew that they were eyes of curiosity, and not intended to do harm. Then, right as the sun fell past the horizon, the temple came alive. All at once, the oil lamps were lit, and in an instant, the most beautiful scene was painted before us. Women in gorgeous saris, and men in bright wraps got down on their knees, and children ran around, laughing with friends. A man climbed a rickety ladder to light the tallest lamp. And that’s when I got it. This was partly about religion, and partly about music, and partly about Shiva, but religion was mostly a reason to celebrate life and to celebrate community.