Accepting God

This story begins in the year 2002-2003 when I was around 2-3 years old. Back then, I was pretty “unconscious” of the world around me. My days consisted of waking up, doing the things my mother asked me to, like playing with Legos, painting a dog or whichever animal captured my fascination that day, eating some fish, making a fuss about taking bitter medicine, and a few other trivial things. Life was moving along just fine until then.

One day, an elderly man, around 70 years old, passed away in our neighborhood. His wife was likely a friend of my grandmother’s. The man had just died, and his body had yet to be taken to the cremation ground. My grandmother needed to visit the grieving widow, so she took me in her arms and brought me along. My mother accompanied us as well. I was too young to understand where we were going or what was happening, and I had been given some food before we left home.

When we arrived, I saw the old man lying there, his nose stuffed with cotton balls and his body covered with a white sheet. He was surrounded by women and children, all crying relentlessly. This was my first time witnessing something like this. Being in my grandmother’s arms gave me a clear view of everything happening in the room.

Turning to my grandmother I asked her with a sign (since I was not a very good speaker at that point in time), “What is wrong with that man down there?”, she gently explained to me in bengali, "সে মারা গেছে“ or simply put ”he has died". Somehow the word of death made me overcome with great fear. My heart sank. I was just 3 years old but I suddenly became very concious of the world around me.

I asked my grandma again, “what is gonna happen to him now?”, she said “He is gonna be taken to the cremation ground to be cremated/burned”

CREMATED?, wont he feel the pain of burning? It was very frigtening. I suddenly started imagining myself on the funeral pyre. I did not cry though. I cried a few months later during Durga Puja. We were sitting in a circle and I was clothed in a pink color sweater.

Everyone around me was engrossed in conversation, their voices blending into a distant hum, as the powerful beats of the dhak during Durga Puja filled the air. The rhythmic pounding of the drums, once a sound of celebration and joy, now seemed ominous, echoing in my mind like a relentless reminder of the passage of time. The energy of the festival—the colors, the sounds, the movement all around me—felt overwhelming. It was as if the world was spinning too fast, and I was suddenly aware of how small and fragile I was in the grand scheme of things.

The thought of death, which had planted itself in my mind months earlier, began to grow and fester. I couldn’t shake the image of the old man lying motionless, nor the terrifying idea of being cremated. It all seemed so real, so inevitable. For the first time, I felt the weight of life’s impermanence, and it terrified me. I became acutely aware that just as the festival would come to an end, so too would everything else. The world felt like it was rushing forward, leaving me behind, with death lurking somewhere in the distance, but approaching steadily.

Overwhelmed by this sudden realization, I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I broke down, crying uncontrollably. My parents rushed over to me, alarmed by my sudden outburst. “What happened, Baba?” they asked.

Through my sobs, I looked up at them with tear-filled eyes and said, “You’re going to burn me too, aren’t you? I’m going to die as well.” The words spilled out, revealing the deep fear that had taken hold of my young mind. The thought of death, which had once seemed distant and abstract, now felt terrifyingly close, and the idea that I, too, would one day face it was too much for me to bear.

My father quickly knelt beside me, gently wiping away my tears. “No, no, nothing is going to happen to you,” he said in a calm, reassuring voice, trying to ease the fear that had gripped me.

Though I didn’t fully understand everything at that age, his assurance made me feel protected, and slowly, I let myself believe that the world was not as terrifying as it had seemed just moments before.

As I grew older, a strange feeling began to surface whenever I looked at myself in the mirror. It started around the age of five, a quiet but persistent sense of unease. I couldn’t quite grasp who I was looking at in the reflection. Who was inside my eyes, staring back at me? Who was watching me from the other side of the mirror? Whose hands were these that I used to wash my face? Whose stomach was this that I caressed after a good meal?

It was deeply unsettling. I struggled to accept that this body was mine—or was it someone else’s? The disconnect between what I saw and what I felt was hard to shake. Even now, that feeling sometimes lingers, a quiet whisper of doubt that makes me question the connection between the person I see and the person I feel I am.

Parallelly, I realized something else, and to explain that, I need to provide a bit of context. My grandmother was a devoted follower of Sri Ramakrishna.

In our home, we have a revered picture of him that holds a special place in our hearts. My grandmother, being a pure and devoted bhakta, worships him with deep reverence. Her daily rituals also include the worship of Swami Vivekananda, affectionately known as Swamiji, and the Holy Mother, Sarada Devi. The trio forms the spiritual foundation of her life, and she approaches each day with meticulous devotion, ensuring that their presence is honored in every way.

Sri Ramakrishna’s image, which we use in our house, is more than just a picture; it is a symbol of divine connection and spiritual guidance. For my grandmother, it serves as a constant reminder of her faith and dedication.

I used to sit by my grandmother’s side as she prepared for worship each morning, listening to her sing with devotion. Her voice would fill the room as she meticulously went about her rituals—cutting fruits, bringing sweets, and cleaning the images of all the gods and goddesses. She would then perform the Puja, often including cucumber pieces mixed with “nokuldana,” a form of sugar that’s popular in Bengal.

I would wait patiently for the prasad, the blessed offering, not fully understanding the significance of what she was doing. Yet, the songs she sang stirred something deep within me, emotions I couldn’t quite explain.

Almost every day, my grandmother would share stories with me—events from the Mahabharata, the Ramayana, and tales from the Puranas. She would recount the legends of Shivaji Maharaj, of Swami Vivekananda, Sri Ramakrishna, and Sarada Devi. I was utterly fascinated by these stories and always eager to learn more.

But beyond these tales, there was a deeper question that lingered in my mind. With an underlying fear of death in my subconscious, I often asked the people around me about God. I was captivated by the powerful figures of Durga, Kali, Shiva, and Vishnu. Their stories were so compelling, and I couldn’t help but wonder—did they believe in God? When you close your eyes, I would ask them, and you think of Bhagavan, God, or Ishwar, whose image comes to your mind?

The answers varied—some said “nothing,” others “Krishna” or “Durga.” For some reason, no matter how much I wanted Durga to occupy that sacred space in my mind, whenever I closed my eyes and thought of God, it was always Sri Ramakrishna’s image that came to me—the exact same image that hung in our home.

When I was ten years old, something happened that I struggled to understand—my mother passed away suddenly due to a serious illness. The loss was difficult to grasp. Having already been introduced to the concept of death through stories and the passing of elders, this was different. This was personal, and it left me feeling lost and unsure.

Half of my mind was still caught up in the usual concerns of a child—school, games, and friends—while the other half was filled with questions about life and death. I had always heard about cremation grounds in stories, but this time, I had to go there myself. As part of the Hindu last rites, I was asked to put honey (or was it ghee? I can’t quite remember) into my mother’s mouth. I was surprised by this ritual, realizing that she wouldn’t feel the pain of the fire that would soon consume her body. Instead, I understood that she was, in a way, relieved from the suffering that her illness had caused her.

Seeing my mother’s lifeless body, and performing these final rites, made me reflect deeply on the nature of life. I knew that death is a reality for every human being, but experiencing it in this way left me with a profound sense of uncertainty about the world. The security and stability I once knew seemed distant, and I was left questioning what it all really meant.

As I grew older, the concerns of the world gradually began to take over my life. Video games became a major part of my daily routine, and my focus shifted towards school marks and other distractions. The simplicity and innocence of childhood began to slip away, replaced by the complexities of growing up.

Over time, I had long forgotten the sound of her voice or the little peculiarities that made her unique. People would often tell me how beautifully she sang and how wonderfully she cooked, but those memories felt distant. My father would frequently express his grief, reminiscing about the life they shared. Meanwhile, I felt strangely numb, grappling with the understanding of just how fragile life truly is.

I began to see people as fleeting, like flies that could drop dead at any moment. The realization that someone who was once a living, breathing person with plans, dreams, and a role in my life—someone who was my world and for whom I was the world—could disappear so easily left a deep impression on me. The idea that she was once here, part of my life, and now she was gone, made me painfully aware that my time, too, would come sooner or later.

As much as others remembered her fondly, I found that my own memories of her began to fade. The permanence of her absence made me realize how easily life could slip away, and how quickly we could be forgotten. This awareness of life’s fragility stayed with me, a quiet reminder that nothing is certain, and that the people we cherish can be taken from us in an instant.

My grandma would tell me often, “You have holy mother sarada watching over you”

I went through the same experiences that all humans do. I was ambitious, driven by the desire to succeed. I felt the sting of jealousy when others outperformed me, and I was fiercely competitive. My passion for physics and mathematics was intense, and the mysteries of the universe captivated my imagination. I would often ponder the big questions: if the Big Bang happened, why did it happen? What existed before it? What is my purpose in all of this?

Despite my curiosity, I never found the answers I was seeking. In hindsight, I realize that I was searching in the wrong places. My journey eventually led me to college, where life took on a more practical focus. Nothing particularly significant happened during those years; I was primarily concerned with money and building a career. My earlier existential questions took a backseat as I pursued what I thought was important.

However, one question continued to linger in my mind: “What is the purpose of life?” I sought answers through the lens of science, but nothing seemed to satisfy my curiosity. Even the top scientists couldn’t explain everything, and this only deepened my confusion. Over time, I drifted away from the idea of God. The world, with all its pain and suffering, seemed to contradict the notion of a benevolent deity. I often found myself questioning, “If God exists, then why do children suffer? Why do they die such terrible deaths? Why is there so much suffering in the world?”

These thoughts haunted me, and I found myself increasingly disillusioned with the idea of a higher power. My focus shifted entirely to the tangible, the measurable—things I thought I could control or understand.

During this time, I delved into the works of many Western philosophers. Their writings often suggested that wealth and pleasure, particularly sex, were the ultimate goals for mankind to pursue. This idea resonated with me at the time, and I became convinced that they were right. I adopted this mindset wholeheartedly, believing that accumulating wealth and indulging in personal pleasures were the keys to a successful and fulfilling life.

I threw myself into earning more, driven by a desire to satisfy my own needs and desires. As I began to achieve certain milestones, my ego swelled. I would often think to myself, “Look at what I've accomplished. I must be so good, so smart!” But as I basked in this self-satisfaction, a deeper question started to nag at me: Who exactly was I being so proud of? Who is this “I” that I was inflating with every success?

I began to question the very nature of this “I”—this body-mind complex that I had come to identify with. Was my identity truly limited to the physical body and the mind’s thoughts and desires? The more I thought about it, the more hollow my achievements felt. I realized that despite my outward success, I had been neglecting something much more profound—the true nature of my existence.

The pursuit of wealth and self-indulgence had given me temporary satisfaction, but it had also led me to a place of deeper questioning. Who was I beneath all the layers of ego, pride, and worldly accomplishments? The more I pondered these questions, the more I realized how misguided my sense of self had become. I was caught up in the illusion of the material world, blinded by a false sense of identity that was tied to fleeting accomplishments and superficial gains.

As I would later read in Maa Sarada’s book, “Man is so attached to the body, which is nothing but 3 pounds of ash when burned. Oh, so much attachment!”

— Rishi Banerjee
July 2023