Col DPK Pillay
Inodded, a wave of emotion washing over me. “A few years ago, I would have scoffed at this, just like you. But something changed. Retirement gave me the time to travel, to truly see my own country, to delve into its ancient heart. I wandered through the serene temples of Kerala, marvelled at the artistry of Ajanta and Ellora, felt the echoes of devotion at the stupas of Sanchi, and stood humbled before the ruins of Khajuraho.
“And it wasn’t just here,” I continued, my voice growing softer. “I journeyed across Southeast Asia, to Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Bali… I witnessed a faith that burned bright, a quiet strength that resonated in the hearts of the people. There was no coercion, no desperate grasping for converts, no ‘poverty tourism’ where salvation is bought and sold for a quick photo op. It was something deeper, something… truer.”
My voice cracked slightly. “We’ve lost that, Aman. Somewhere along the way, we’ve become disconnected. We analyse, we dissect, we intellectualise, but we’ve forgotten how to simply feel the power of something larger than ourselves. We’ve traded the wisdom of our ancestors for the fleeting certainty of the present, and in doing so, we’ve lost a part of our soul.”
Heritage for granted “Something that resonates across millennia,” I added, “from the astronomical precision of the Kumbh Mela, linked to the orbit of Jupiter, to the ancient worship of the sun god, the source of all life on earth.” “The sun,” Aman echoed, his gaze drawn to the fading light filtering through the café window. “We owe everything to it, yet we take it for granted.”
“Just as we take our cultural heritage for granted,” I said softly. “The Kumbh Mela, despite its flaws, is a testament to that heritage. It’s a reminder that India, despite centuries of turmoil, remains a land of faith, a land of enduring spirit.”
I saw a change in Aman then, a softening of his features, a flicker of something akin to awe in his eyes. He was a man of reason, a man of logic, yet even he could not deny the power of the intangible, the strength of a shared belief. He, the staunch atheist, was witnessing the undeniable force of faith, a force that had shaped and sustained a civilisation for millennia.
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “there’s more to faith than blind devotion. Perhaps it’s about finding meaning, about connecting with something larger than ourselves.” “Perhaps,” I agreed, “it’s about recognising the strength that lies within us, the strength that binds us together as a nation.”
We sat in silence for a moment, two men from different worlds, brought together by a shared reflection on the Kumbh Mela. The bustling café faded into the background as the weight of the ancient gathering settled upon us. “Jai Hind, Aman,” I said softly, raising my coffee cup in a silent toast. He met my gaze, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Jai Hind,” he replied. We finished our coffee, the conversation lingering in the air between us.
Neither of us had “won” the argument, nor had we sought to. Something had shifted, though, a subtle realignment of perspectives. We left the café, stepping back into the rhythm of the city, each carrying a piece of the other’s truth. The Kumbh Mela, in its immensity and its contradictions, had woven its magic, leaving us with a deeper understanding of faith, of India, and of ourselves.
