In God We Trust

It's been a rocky road with God and I.  Despite coming from a family of believers, it's never really clicked.  My regular attendance at Church meant I could recite any story from the Bible and run the Mass service itself if ever required.  Islam also opened its doors as I visited the mosque every Eid and became familiar with the ways of the Imam.  But something was missing.

I would kneel, sit, stand up, close my eyes and repeat the words everyone else seemed to be feeling.  But I didn't feel anything.  I was pretending.  And I felt like a fraud.  So as soon as my parents would permit it, I stopped going.  And honestly, I haven't really looked back.  Until now.

I recently found myself in a church in Rome.  The Basilica in Sao Paolo to be exact.  It was indescribably beautiful.  But it wasn't just the intricate paintings on the walls or the shiny marble floor.  Buildings don't normally take my breath away.  It was something else.  And I found myself thinking that if God were to exist, this is where he would live.  And He's been on my mind ever since.

I have many reasons for the lack of religion in my life.  Firstly, I do not wish to be told how to live.  I am the only conductor in my existence.  If the recent death of my grandma has taught me nothing, it is that life is far too short.  And I don't want to waste a minute following the orders and commands of anybody, let alone an interpretation of a book written several lifetimes ago.  I don't believe in following anything except my own heart.  And occasionally my head.

Secondly, I don't want to use anything as a crutch.  It's an incredibly pretty thought to imagine that death allows you to transcend to an eternal paradise.  An idyllic world where you shall be reunited with all your friends and family.  And the only reason you haven't been able to come right away is because some girl ate an apple.  Of course this is a much more attractive philosophy than the idea of your anatomy disintegrating into the earth, and that being IT.  The end.  If most people were given the choice between these options, I feel sure what they would choose.  And I don't blame them.  But I don't want to just pick the fairytale because it's easier.

Thirdly, this may be the reason that angers me the most: the fact that your ascension into this picture perfect world above the sky is dependent on your actions.  The promise that if you treat people well, you shall be rewarded.  My argument is that you shouldn't have to bargain with someone to ensure they are a good person.  Did God have so little faith in us that he had to promise a beautiful afterlife in order to ensure we behaved ourselves?  I believe you should be a good person for no other reason than because you want to be.  And this may seem unrealistic but so does the idea of Jesus turning water into wine.  So if I want to believe in something, I'll believe in the idea that people do not need a reason to be good.

But as much as I state all these reasons, I can't deny the fact that I'm a little envious of those who do feel something.  I thought if I ever felt anything, I would embrace Him.  That wouldn't mean rushing off to the nearest Church or buying a yashmak.  But it would just mean knowing that there was an Other, a Something.  And being able to be comforted by this.  But I can't lie to myself.  However, I've been hoping and wishing for a while now and then it suddenly clicked.

God is not going to come down and reveal himself personally to me.  I may never witness a miracle.  Or find a definitive answer for things the world cannot yet explain.  And yes, religious theories may all be a fairytale.  But the point is that you have to believe.  That is why it's called 'faith' and not 'knowledge'.  Because nobody really knows.  And nobody feels anything...at first.  But the beauty of it is that they believe anyway.  And allow themselves to dream and wish and hope.  And when you consider religion like this, it's almost magical.

So I'm going to have a little faith.  And this doesn't mean my days will be dictated.  Or I'm looking for something to lean on.  Or I need a motive to behave myself.  I'm just going to start believing in believing.  Watch this space.

Western Wellingtons

I believe there is and always will be a social stigma attached to the phrase 'arranged marriage.'  In the western culture in which we live, people automatically seem to envision a timid bride meeting the groom on the morning of their engagement and consequently being marched down the isle by her overbearing parents.  Certainly, the occasional horror story in the media has done little to oppress this image.  It seems it's only those who are immersed in the asian culture who really understand the procedure of an arranged marriage.

The 'arranging' is done by the parents or grandparents.  Or more often than not, the gossips in the family.  The gossip: that one person who knows everything about everyone.  It wasn't too long ago that one so-called gossip in our family arrived with a wad of 'CV's' which he enthusiastically placed in my cousin's lap, much to her disgust.  The pile contained a selection of worthy suitors living in India, or perhaps as the more cynical person would say: those looking for a one way ticket to the west.  My cousin couldn't dispose of them fast enough.

Yes, this is how it begins.  From a CV or conversation amongst family members.  It's a favourite activity for the elders who love nothing more than matching a son and a daughter within their network and tightening those family ties.  And then the wedding preparations can commence.  Amongst the younger generation, it seems to be a fate either dreaded or accepted.  Very few seem to want to fight it.  This is with the exception of my own dad of course, who was insistent on marrying my 'gorra' (white) mother in spite of Mumtaz, the asian bride my grandma had so readily picked out.  It is only recent experiences that have taught me how rare my Dad's decision really was and the strength that it would take to break away from those ancient family traditions.

But in spite of my experiences, it may surprise you that I'm not entirely opposed to the idea.  Certainly, it's a route I have and will continue to explore.  Sure, it's not the conventional way of meeting your future husband.  But having a meeting arranged by your grandma sometimes sounds slightly more appealing than shouting over drinks in a nightclub.  It's an interesting perspective on dating.  Although perhaps there are more surrounding family pressures.  But as long as you never pursue someone purely to succumb to your grandma's wishes, who is to say it's not a successful road to the happily ever after?

Personally, I am not even close to the mindset of being married.  There is so much I want to achieve for myself before becoming somebody's wife.  But the point I'm trying to make is that I believe it's important to be open.  It seems there's a certain snobbery that comes with living on this side of the world, even if it's only subconscious.  We tend to believe that eastern traditions are backward and inferior to our own.  But if given the chance to understand, we're giving our world a whole new dimension.  It's changing attitudes such as these that could contribute to the downfall of discrimination on a universal scale.  So instead of marching in with your western wellingtons, try embracing what the east has to offer.  And you may just be surprised.

Believing in butterflies

In my twenty-one years of living, there are only three people who have ever given me butterflies.  The kind of butterflies you feel on a rollercoaster when you’re so pumped with adrenaline the rush just makes you want to scream.  Or that buzz when a plane is taking off.  It’s a powerful feeling and underestimated in my opinion.  I feel I’ve been fortunate to even experience it once.

Of these three people, I would like to tell you about one.  The other two shall remain anonymous I’m afraid.  Let’s call him number three.  I was fifteen and in central Rome sitting on a bench eating gelato and watching the traffic go by.  I looked up from my ice cream to see a stranger looking straight at me.  His eyes were piercing me so intensely that he may as well have been sitting right beside me.  And boom, there were the butterflies.  He was sitting on his motorbike in the traffic queue.  The traffic moved, I blinked and he was gone.  And that was it.  It could only have been ninety seconds at the most.  And then I was left with just a memory and a fast melting ice cream.

You are probably thinking I have seen too many picture-perfect Hollywood movies.  Or that I was in Rome: one of the most romantic cities in the world and thus the easiest place to fall in lust with a complete stranger.  Or that I was a fifteen year old girl with raging hormones and a newly found interest in the opposite sex.  Believe me, I have considered all these options.  But a part of me still can’t help but question why I had such instantly strong feelings for a stranger.  And why circumstances meant that it didn’t amount to anything.  Number one and number two have at least been explored.  But with number three I felt robbed.

A friend recently stated her belief that the purpose of life is simply to experience.  Perhaps she deserves more credit for her wisdom.  Because analyzing the ‘what if’s’ can drive you crazy.  And trying to find a meaning when there isn’t one is just exhausting.  So maybe it was just a magical moment.  And the rest I will never really know.  Because life is just a string of isolated incidents we attempt to piece together through finding a meaning.  And trying to squeeze sense out of everything would be a waste of time.

But I would be lying if I said I no longer believed in the magic of fate altogether.  I’m currently visiting a friend in Rome for a few days...