Our self-isolation days

 Dear Shanaya,

You are 7 now. Taller, Talkative, Terrific! And to add another feather to your cap, you have dealt with the crisis around COVID-19 incredibly well. We have stayed home (or consciously adhered to the isolation guidelines, to do the responsible thing) for weeks/months - over March to June 2020. We are lucky here in Perth to be able to ease the social restrictions sooner than most other countries/cities in the world who are still battling the rising curve. But it must have been difficult for you, given the social butterfly you are! You took it really well, and never complained. I am proud of how positive, energetic and cheerful you have been through this all. Not a single meltdown (although, I myself had a few)!

We took to art (painted, made COVID-themed posters and family hand-print collages, wind chimes out of bangles, a peacock out of leaves, and even a picture of the night sky for Daddy's desk on his birthday)....

music and dancing (there was a party in our living room almost every day, as you asked Google to play your favourite songs)....

role-plays (we set up pop-up restaurants in the backyard and served pancakes and ice-cream for brunch!)...

DIY toys (Daddy made you a kitchen out of cardboard boxes, and a cool little camera...Mummy sewed a dress for your Barbie and made Easter Bunnies out of socks...and you made Play Doh animals and birds)...

Google 3D animals, ranging from tigers to giant pandas (who looked quite comfortable in our living room)...

star gazing with our new telescope (bought at the Perth Astronomy Fest 2020)...

video/Zoom chats with family and friends (and even virtual birthday party and cake cutting for Daddy's birthday)...

reading and story-telling (and making video clips of jokes you read out from your new-favourite "The Treehouse Joke Book")...

walks around the neighbourhood (spotting the teddy bears and rainbows people left at their windows to lift up the spirits...and the most gorgeous pink skies at sunset)...

cooking and experimenting in the kitchen (especially the Dalgona Coffee that became "viral", and Daddy's signature goat curry and pulao)...

science experiments (of invisible drawings that reveal themselves in water, and shape shadow on walls)...

Lego competitions (where Daddy built a bridge he named "Poku"and you built a whole city, with a school, playground, hospital and even a church!)...

gardening and home-decorating (we planted a new yellow-flowering plant that we can see from the kitchen window, while Daddy took to grafting roses)...

homeschooling (which was bitter sweet - some days were fun, and some were stressful, as Mummy was still working full time, and had deadlines to meet!)

backyard cricket (where money was always involved!)...

writing letters to our friends in the neighbourhood (and receiving replies in our letter boxes, because we couldn't meet them in person)...

makeup and manicures (our nails have never looked so good before!)...

TV and movie nights with pop corn (Nadiya Hussain's cook shows were our favourite, and we even tried a few recipes like beetroot pasta, orange baklava, soda bread, peanut butter chicken casserole)

candle-lit dinners (because, well...one day, there was a power cut around dinner time.. and one day, because we just felt like it!)...

radio shows (yes, Mummy even did a quick interview with a radio station in Kolkata, to share what the COVID situation was in Australia!)

and a pet (we brought home Shelly, the snail).

Turns out, the best thing we got out of this crisis was memorable time with the family. I hope when this is all over, and the world has found a way to defeat this virus, we can look back on these days, and remember how we survived a pandemic, together as a family. Most of all, I hope we continue to be grateful for our blessings, big and small...and never take anything or anyone for granted.

Love,

Mummy

Shelley

"Mummy, I'd like to have a pet snail", she said one day during the lockdown period.
Surprised (but relieved) that she had lowered her demand from a dog to a snail, I play along. "That's a lovely idea for a pet", I say. "If you can find one in the garden, you can keep it. We'll feed it leaves and scraps."
Excited at the prospect, she starts to spend considerably more time in the garden, looking for a snail. Better than being in front of the TV, I think.

The search continues for a few days, but no sign of a snail. She comes back with an ant instead. "Look who I found, Mummy! She's so pretty. I'll name her Curly!" (because the poor ant had curled up in fear by then).

So Curly finds a home in a plastic takeaway box, and is placed centre-stage on our dining table. It was almost lunch time by then, and her Dad had made his signature Biriyani (her favourite too). When we weren't watching,  little fingers placed a fat grain of saffron coloured rice in the box. "There you go, Curly. Eat some biriyani."
Now, we had always joked to first-time visitors that we weren't great cooks, but nobody who ate the food we cooked, had died. We will never be able to say that again.

Because Curly died.
Whether it was from pure joy (from the best meal of its life) or from the constant talking or frequent touching...we will never know.
But tears were shed. Prayers were said. And a burial in the backyard followed.
Pet-less again, the search for a snail started anew. Days later, hopelessness sets in. "There are just no snails in our garden, Mummy". But she remembered seeing snails in one of our friend's gardens. "Can you ask them to catch one for me?"
"Of course not!", I say, imagining how that conversation would pan out. "Hello, how are you? Calling for a small favour. Could you please catch a snail for my daughter? We promise it will get a loving home at ours".

I cut that imaginary conversation short in my head. Especially after Curly's demise, I wasn't sure if I could promise anyone a good home anymore!

But I did have that conversation in reality. And the friend did not hang up on me. In fact, she called back a few days later with news. She had managed to catch a snail during one of her evening walks!
So we rushed to her house (like rushing to the hospital at the news of the arrival of a new baby!). And what do we find there?
A snail with a birth card and gender announcement! It was a girl! Miss S was finally a big sister!
I had happened to mention to my friend that Miss S had planned to call her snail (if she found one), Shelley (obvious reference to its shell, duh!). My friend remembered!

And so, with a heart full of gratitude, and  hands holding a box with her "little sister" inside, she comes back home.
Days pass. We make Shelley a home...with soil, a rock to climb on (for the view of the garden), a leaf to sit on, and a food dish where we leave fruit and veggie scraps. We read her stories (preferably one with snails in it) after school.
Shelley soon earns an adjective. "Shy Shelley", we start to call her, as she never comes out of her shell to show us her face (or any other body part).
Until today.
Looks like she has finally warmed up to us. She lets us watch her, while she eats an apple!
And while tomorrow marks one month since we got her home, we celebrate today, when Shy Shelley isn't so shy anymore...

A day off

Truth be told...I am not coping with the anxiety and stress around the current COVID-19 crisis too well. Working from home for the last one week, while having Miss 6 at home too, the lines between work and home have become blurry. I have deadlines to meet...and a child to home-school. I want to do both well. The dishes and laundry, the cleaning and cooking, the work video calls and family WhatsApp groups...I want to ignore none. I am worried sick about Ma at home (who is practically disabled, and dependent on others for the simplest of things). The sleepless nights have given me a stiff neck. I need to switch off, but I can't. I need a break from looking at the screen (of all sizes). I need sleep. So, today, I took the "day off".

I woke up earlier that usual. In fact, I hadn't really slept at all, with late-night phone calls from Ma. I must make most of my day off, I thought. I made breakfast for the family, instead.
Simple, easy breakfast. Not good enough, I guess. Perhaps I should have made something special. After all, it's my day off. But I'll make up for that later. For now, let me get a few loads of washing done.

Meanwhile, the little person was up. I better spend the whole day with her, doing fun stuff, and catching up on school stuff. After all, it's my day off.
So after breakfast, we spend an hour or more making a wind-chime with materials we had at home, then writing about it, and photographing it with my little artist.  That reminds me! Her school has been sending us online materials to do at home. So next, it was school work...spelling, writing, reading, maths. Let's make it extra fun, shall we? After all, it's my day off.

The neighbourhood mums group has started a "teddy bear on the window" initiative. So that when kids walk past houses, they see these teddy bears and smile. With little or no interaction with the outside world, it's a great idea to keep their spirits up. So, we went about finding a teddy to put at our window. But wait, the window has cobwebs, and dust. So I clean it first. As I already have the duster in hand, might as well dust the house. After all, it's my day off. All the dusting has made the floors too dirty now. How about a quick clean with a mop? Of course! After all, it's my day off.
Finally, the bear gets put on the window sill. "But we must take a photo of it, Mummy." Sure. So we step outside and click a few pictures. There are too many dry leaves all over our front lawn. Let me just quickly pick some up. After all, it's my day off.

Back inside, I remember that the carrots were going soggy...and I had a whole unused packet of ham, which would expire tomorrow. Can't throw things in the bin, particularly in such times of crisis. So made some ham and cheese scrolls for the little person's snack. And a carrot cake. The latter was to save two carrots, and make a little girl happy. But the mess it made... the washing and cleaning before and after... cost me more than an hour. But what kind of a mum would I be if I didn't even do these messy, fun things? After all, it was my day off.

A quick lunch followed. It is 2 pm now. I sit down for the first time, on my own. My headache feels worse. My shoulder and neck so stiff that I can't turn my head. I am welling up inside. I run to the toilet for a quick, quiet, weep. The little person follows. And asks a question about stars. It could wait. But what kind of a mother snaps back at a child's question? That too on a day off? But I do snap back. And I sob, silently, lest she hears me.
The phone rings. It's Ma, calling me for the third time today. I am tired, I am hurting. But what kind of a daughter doesn't pick up her mum's call? That too on her day off? So I pick it up. It's a question that I have answered before. Two times already today. I let out a scream, on the phone. Because I can't take it anymore. The cake, the wind-chime, the teddy bear...fade to a distant memory. Right this moment, I am a bad mum...and a bad daughter.

I scream, I am impatient, I haven't cooked (because baking isn't "cooking"), I haven't actually done any office work today...and I haven't smiled enough lately, although I have so much to be grateful for. I feel guilty for being ungrateful. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty. I must make the evening better. Perhaps I'll paint something with Miss 6. Or go for a walk round the neighbourhood to spot more teddies at the windows. How about I do both? And I'll definitely call back Ma and talk for at least an hour. To console, pacify, reassure. After all, it's my day off.

Trick or Treat? Chill or Thrill?

I was fortunate enough to grow up on a healthy dose of Thakumar Jhuli (a collection of Bengali folk and fairy tales for kids, whose title translates to “Grandma’s Bag of Stories”). But my favourite happened to be Jethimar Jhuli (“Aunt’s Bag of Stories”). The latter was by no means a published book. Its fascination lay in the fact that only we, the kids of the Sengupta family, had access to this collection of stories. The Jethima (aunt) in question is whom we call Soma.

It took strangers by surprise that we called our aunt, who was so much older than we were, by her first name. But “Soma”, despite being a popular Bengali name, wasn’t our Jethima’s name at all. “Soma” was a contraction for “Shejo Ma” (coined by my sister, who couldn’t really pronounce “Shejo Ma” when young). So that’s how our Jethima came to be known as Soma.

Soma was the kids’ favourite, not just because she was well-read and charming, but because she actually took the time to know each one of us individually. She even made us feel that she really did enjoy our company. Most of her generation dismissed us as a “collective noun” – “the kids are up to mischief again”, “the kids need to be fed”, “the kids need to be in bed now” etc. Soma made everything fun – right from pujo rituals to current affairs. But she was the best at storytelling. In fact, I haven’t met anyone who can make the ordinary sound so extraordinary, purely by the power of narration.

One of my favourite childhood memories (and I am sure many of my cousins will agree) is huddling up under a blanket, on a crisp, winter afternoon in Soma’s bedroom, while she told us ghost stories. I never questioned (and still not sure) whether these were stories she had read somewhere, or whether they were products of her own imagination. But the goose bumps were real, as we held hands and squealed in the kind of thrill only the horror genre is known to bring. The pleasurable fear going down our spine… that bone-chilling sensation of a hand reaching out to grab us from the back…that eerie feeling of someone watching us from outside the window… that constant anticipation that the person sitting next to us may suddenly turn into that we most fear…the cold hands and feet that gave us no respite, despite being under the thickest blanket….

Soma’s stories evoked all of that. It transported us to a place we all feared but loved at the same time. One such story was about a girl called Ila, who rose from her coffin. “Coffin thekey uthey elo…..Ilaaaaaaa”, Soma would say, dragging out the name in her spookiest voice. And we would scream and beg her to stop….and the very next moment, we would ask her to say that line again (as if she was a rock star performing her greatest hits). I am sure we all had our own mental picture of Ila. Mine was that of a face-less girl with the darkest of hair, white as a sheet of paper.

Another favourite story was the one in which a mother ate the flesh of her own child! Gory, I know (and in today’s context, possibly very inappropriate for being a kids’ story). But we turned out fine (mostly). The saving grace was that (as was later revealed in the story) she bit off the flesh because that was the only way to save her child, who was poisoned. But she stuck in our heads as a monster, who liked human flesh over ordinary food.

When Miss 6 came back from school chatting about her Halloween plans for tomorrow, strangely, these childhood memories came flooding back. I have never really cared much that Halloween is an “American thing” and the theories around why it “should not be celebrated”. All I know is that Miss 6 looks forward to it for most of the year. And although she may not have a cool Jethima as Soma who can take her on a thrill ride, I have decided to start our own Halloween tradition of spooky stories to celebrate the day. And while I’m no expert myself, I am going to trust these guys, and these, (and read a few more) who say that “scary stories are good for kids”. If you have any recommendations, please do share, as Soma’s Ila will have to wait a few more years.

Gratitude, thy colour is pink!

While Steve Jobs’ Stanford speech is inspiring in every way, I have often wondered about the pragmatism of this particular part of his speech:

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right.” It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Is it that easy to live every day as if it is the last day of our lives? Not for me. I’ll be honest; on cold winter mornings like today, the answer to the above question would most definitely be a No. I wouldn’t want to come to work, especially if it was the last day of my life. I am no Steve Jobs, who can dare to dream big and make it their reality. I am your average mortgage-paying, nine-to-five working, workout-hating person….with a child to raise and ageing parent to support. And remote support (from another part of the world), as you can guess, can become an emotional roller-coaster. You end up living two lives; often feeling like you’re not doing justice to either.

Today, was one such day. A day when I wished I was in India, by my Ma’s side. Today, she is to see a new doctor, who would hopefully show us some light at the end of the tunnel. But I was here….oceans away….living the other half of my life. While I struggled out of bed, I kissed my sleeping, almost-six year old, goodbye for the day. She went to bed with a wobbly tooth. I, for one, am not ready for her to lose her first milk tooth just yet. When I pick her up from school today, maybe that tooth will be gone. My baby would have grown just a little bit. Not sure if it was the hormones or the winter chill, but I walked to the driveway, teary-eyed.

Just then, I looked up at the sky. And there it was! The amazing pink hues of dawn (pic above), which leaves one awestruck. There it was…a moment in time…that will stay with me forever. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. For my life, my work and mostly, my people. The magical skies reminded me of everything I was so thankful for. For the friend who made this doctor’s appointment possible…For the niece and cousin who are taking a day off today to take Ma to her appointment….For Borda and Boudi, my second set of parents…For the friends who have stood by me through the toughest times….For the neighbours in India who have been helpful in more ways than I can list….For the family members who have been kind, patient and generous….For my friends in Australia who have put up with my highs and lows…For my work, which allowed me the flexibility, the financial freedom and the friendships needed to make a first-generation migrant’s life less challenging than it sometimes can be. For my daughter and husband, who fill my life with joy (when they are not driving me crazy!).

Tomorrow, I may crib, cry and complain again. But today, I choose gratitude. I may not be living today as if it was the last day of my life. But I am choosing to dwell on the pink sky...not the dark clouds. Apparently, the colour pink represents caring, compassion and love. It stands for unconditional love and understanding, and is associated with giving and receiving care. And today’s morning sky makes me convinced that whoever came up with that meaning, wasn’t far from the truth. I would only add “gratitude” to it.

World's a stage

Dear Shanaya,

I am not entirely sure how you have internalised “all the world’s a stage” without having read Shakespeare. But you like to behave that you are forever performing in front of packed audiences. Be it an impromptu song that you break into (with very original lyrics), or practising your kathak or other dance routines (for a real show you may be preparing for), or helping Daddy cook, or dancing in your car-seat to a song on the car radio…you give it your best! You want me to make little videos of your performance and put it on YouTube (which, I have not, of course). I did upload your cooking video (making scones) on social media, which received a flood of love and praise (obviously, from biased friends and relatives who love you blindly).

The other day, you danced to a Rabindra Sangeet (Madhibi Hotath Kotha Hotey Elo) on the occasion of Rabindra Nazrul Sandhya organised by BAWA. You were the little Madhobi, dressed in a pretty orange saree and a lavish flower crown (which was handmade with love). How well you danced is not for me to say….but how much you enjoyed it, was evident. The energy, smile and eye contact with the audience and other dancers, told me, once again, what I already knew. My little girl loves to perform!

You enjoyed every hug and praise you received after the show. But what I will never forget (or let you forget) is how you asked me if anybody would “take your autograph”! There was more innocence than pride in your question, which made it hilarious and adorable at the same time. Nobody took your autograph that day. But I hope, as you grow older and navigate through the by-lanes of life, you are able to hold on to that confidence and innocence. For they are amazing qualities, my dear girl – performing on stage or not.

Love,

Mummy

For goodness' sake

For goodness' sake
Stop asking a woman when she plans to have her first child.
Or second.
Stop telling her that time is ticking.
She knows.
She may have tried to, many times...
From tears and prayers
To pills and being under the knife.
She may have tried it all.
Or maybe she didn't try anything.
She just knows she can't or shouldn't.
Perhaps she doesn't want one.
Don't ask her why.
She must have her reasons.
And she doesn't have to justify them.

For goodness' sake
Stop telling her that a sibling is the best gift she could give her first-born.
Maybe, just maybe, the first born itself was a miracle.
Or a result of much pain, needles and loss.
Perhaps she cannot go through it again.
Perhaps she can, but decided not to.
Perhaps, one is all she always wanted.
Or one is more than she ever hoped for.

For goodness' sake
Stop judging a woman who doesn't want a child at all.
She doesn't need to follow a template.
She isn't selfish, strange or anything else you may think her to be.
She is just her.
So let her be.

For goodness' sake
Stop telling a woman that she shouldn't have any more children.
Three or four or five or seven...may be enough.
For you.
But not her.

For goodness' sake
Stop the casual small talk about a woman's childbearing plan over dinner or someone else's baby shower.
It's personal. It's intimate. And it often hurts.
If she wants your advice,
She will ask for it.
Trust me.

For goodness' sake
Stop asking a woman when she plans to have a child.
"Plans" don't work for many.
And no two "plans" look the same anyway.

When the Goddess meets Ganges

When the Goddess meets Ganges…

The trance is over.

And all that is left of the splendour,

Are the bare bamboo structures,

Un-assembled in silence.

The silks and taants and embroidered kurtas,

Find their way back to the hard-to-reach closets.

The striped ties take centre-stage again,

Like noose tightening around our nine-to-five lives.

As the dhaakis pack up and go home to their villages,

The street dogs claim back their spot as the noise-makers of night.

With the communal loudspeakers gone,

We resort to our self-centred headphones.

The warm embrace during sindoor-khela and bijoya,

Are forgotten overnight.

The lukewarm “hellos”, or worse still,

The conscious avoidance of eye contact during rush hour,

Become the norm once again.

When the Goddess meets Ganges…

The trance is over.

We have nowhere to hide,

From the bare-chested, dirt-clad children on the street,

To whom, the promise of “asche bochor abar hobe”,

Mean nothing at all.

The artificial preservatives for our egos

Language brings people closer. But only if they speak the same one. I could hit it off with a stranger at a train station, just by asking “Which train should I take to go to the city?”. But if I was in Germany, and asked the same question to a non-English speaking person, I may not get an inch closer to the city or to the person.

Although verbal language is not the only kind of language, it is the most commonly-used tool to communicate. Then why do we complicate it? Why do we introduce new words every day, and expect the world to keep up? Why do we make it more difficult for people to learn it? Advances in all fields (arts, science, technology, sociology, psychology and everything in between) have introduced new concepts, which require new words. Fair enough. If a new planet is discovered…or a new disease is found, of course they will need new names.

But often, it’s an age-old concept that’s re-packaged, actively promoted (in academia, media and big corporations), and brings with it the immensely annoying (and completely avoidable) "corporate jargon". Right from jobs to job titles, things have evolved over the years. The fundamentals though, often remain the same. Let's consider "Marketing". The ultimate goal of all marketing initiatives (directly or indirectly) is to sell or teach people how to sell. But just think of the plethora of words that have crept into our lives from this fundamental concept of “selling”.  There is an article on a whopping 159 types of marketing. And that’s just one perspective…the tip of the iceberg. The same goes for "Management". In simple terms, it is to do with managing something or someone. Essentially, it’s what generations have done intuitively/organically, before “management” gained its current-day status of a highly-regarded “skill” that can be taught and practised in a conscious/sophisticated way, with its many nuances. As with any sophistication, it injected our vocabulary with yet another high dose of jargon.

 The advances may be necessary but the side-effect of corporate jargon is not. It contaminates and challenges the very essence of language i.e. to understand and be understood. And when jargon sneaks out of boardrooms and offices into our dinner tables and casual conversations, nobody wins. It creates barriers, pushes people away and affects our credibility. Nobody likes a Mrs Names-Dropper or a Mr Know-It-All whose primary aim is not to communicate, but to intimidate or impress. These are people who are usually trying to cover-up for fluff (overcompensate because they are insecure about what they are saying) or they want to sound smarter than they actually are.

Jargon can make complex concepts simple (in medicine, for example, it serves as shorthand) or simple concepts sound complex. It's the latter we should be wary of.  That kind of jargon is a threat to language, just as processed food it a threat to our health. There is a huge focus worldwide to steer people back to wholefoods –meat, veg, fruits and nuts, which are as close to their natural form as possible. A can of tuna swimming in preservatives is no match for a fresh piece of fish lightly grilled on the pan. Similarly, “brainstorming”, “strategic thinking”, “ideation” is no match for the simple (yet honest) “thinking”. A “thought leader” is ultimately still a “leader”, “collaborate” is still “work together” and “benchmarking” is essentially still “comparing”. "Leverage" and "impact", on the other hand, should have never been used as verbs.

Our ancestors lived in far more challenging conditions than we do today - battling with harsh weathers, hunting for food, suffering diseases that didn’t have a cure back then, fighting for their lives/principles in war. Yet, their language was simple and honest. And we, the suit-wearing generation of modern times, who invent videos games to simulate challenging environments, have adopted corporate jargon to feel superior. After all, “Content Marketing Specialist” sounds far more important than “Writer”, and “Customer Financial Analyst” sounds meatier than “Accountant”.

Corporate jargon surrounds us. From big corporations to small not-for-profit-organisations, from media and sports to home-based businesses, this annoying gobbledygook has crept into most environments. It’s up to us whether we embrace it or resist it. It’s up to us whether we use the “artificial preservatives” for our egos or preserve the simplicity of language – the most powerful and unique asset of our species.

What would you do?

Imagine a school. A huge campus…a magnificent building with great facilities. You agree to its policies and like the sound of its ideologies (from the little you have read). You have even met a few members of the faculty, who look respectable and knowledgeable. You decide that it will be the right one to guide and educate your children through their formative years.

As the years go by, you realise that the teachers are incompetent and careless. They do not care about your child at all. They are un-inspiring, lazy and selfish. They blindly read from textbooks in class, without bothering to explain contexts or provide meaningful examples. In fact, they favour students based on the gifts they bring in, and penalise those that do not satisfy their greed.

You speak to the Principal, who assures you that it is all going as per plan (and there is nothing to worry). He even puts your child in a different class, with a more “popular” teacher. But you soon realise that it’s not much better, as the curriculum itself is theoretical and archaic.

To make matters worse, your child has witnessed bullying. Apparently, there are kids in the school who beat up and verbally abuse students from another school, at the bus stop. Occasionally, they even bully kids from their own school. On repeated complaints, they are neither punished nor expelled (as some of them are the children of senior faculty or board of directors).

Your child is clearly upset and does not look forward to going to school at all. You have given it sufficient number of years to know that things won’t change on their own. You have spoken to several frustrated parents, who feel the same way….but continue to send their children to this school because it is closer home and still has a reputation. “It’s all more or less the same…others, often worse”, they said.  

Surely, not all schools can be this bad. You personally know teachers from other schools who seem to genuinely enjoy teaching. You also know several students who have turned out just fine….fighting and surviving in the system, without being scarred. You yourself are a product of the very system, often facing similar problems when growing up. But your parents did nothing drastic (like changing schools or suburbs).

As an educated, independent, responsible parent, would you continue your/your child’s journey with this school (or any school where you have a similar experience)?

If your answer is "No"...

Replace the word "school" with "religion" in the earlier paragraphs (and teachers/faculty/principal with whatever you call your religious heads). Now answer that question again. Is your answer still No?

The concept of religion is not much different to the concept of a school you are affiliated with. If you are not getting much out of it, you have a choice. If you have lost faith in the system altogether, you don’t need a religion at all! For religion may be born out of the best intentions (just like the magnificent building of the school that impressed you on the first day), but if the popular “practice” of it is corrupt, illogical or un-inspiring, you cannot truly justify being a part of it.

Of course, the analogy is not meant to be taken literally. In modern society, we can live without religion…but it’s not as easy to do away with schools. Also, school as an institution is not synonymous with education. Just like faith/spirituality is not synonymous with religion. ­One can be educated without ever stepping into a school (and be essentially un-educated despite have degrees from prestigious schools/colleges). Similarly, one can have faith and even believe in a superpower of some sort, without being part of any religion.

The point is, has religion really given us a lot? Has it not, over the years, caused more pain/inequality/unrest than provided the peace and freedom it was supposed to offer? When I read about the atrocities in the name of religion, I become more convinced that I do not want to be affiliated to any. When I hear about the hatred and terror spread by the so-called custodians of religion, I feel like my child doesn’t need the tag of religion either. Sure, we enjoy the festivities, celebrations and even certain religious rituals. But we celebrate Christmas with as much zeal as Diwali and Eid. And these celebrations (to us) have very little to do with religion. They are all just opportunities to celebrate the joys of life, with our family and friends.

I am possibly not a true atheist just yet…but I choose joy over religion. I choose peace.

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I found this interesting piece on the difference between God and religion:

https://www.rebjeff.com/blog/the-difference-between-god-and-religion

In it, Reb Jeff says:

It is my belief that many people who call themselves atheists are really just anti-religion. Maybe that's true for you, too. I think there is a difference between faith and religion.

A true atheist would be someone who believes that our existence is a complete accident of chance, that our lives serve no purpose and have no meaning, apart from what human beings ascribe to their own existence. A true atheist would believe that there is nothing intrinsically good or bad about any human action wrong. I don't believe that and I don't think that there are many people who do if you really push them on it. To me, faith is just the gut feeling that our lives continue to matter even after we have died, and that the way we choose to live matters, too—not just because of our biologically programmed preferences, but because there really is such a thing as right and wrong.