In the Temple of My Soul: A Pilgrim Without Borders

In the Temple of My Soul: A Pilgrim Without Borders

There is a hush that precedes dawn — a sacred silence that seems to stretch between heaven and earth. In that tender hour, while the world still slumbers beneath the velvet shawl of night, I awaken not just to a new day, but to an old companionship — one that I share with the Eternal.

Do I practise religion? Yes — but not with a label, nor with a ledger. I pray, but my prayers do not wear uniforms. I belong to no single fold, and yet I bow before all sanctuaries that open their arms to love, to light, and to the longing of the human soul.

I am, perhaps, best described as a pilgrim without borders — walking barefoot across the spiritual sands of time, drawing water from many sacred springs

A Devotion Not Defined, But Deepened

My prayer mat is woven from many threads — sacred chants from the Vedas, whispers from the Psalms, melodies from the Guru Granth Sahib. Sometimes I clasp the rosary with the same tenderness with which I recite Sanskrit shlokas; sometimes I close my eyes to the rhythm of Sikh Ardas or the quiet hum of a Marian hymn.

They are not borrowed garments. They are living expressions of the yearning within — the kind that does not ask, “Which God?” but rather, “How can I meet Thee?”

Rituals, for me, are not about routine — they are reminders. The lighting of a lamp is not just to chase away darkness, but to awaken light within. The fragrance of incense is not just for the air, but for the soul. A folded hand, a bowed head, a whispered name — these are gestures of surrender, not submission.

Faith Without Walls, Love Without Limits

There is a fragrance in the house of prayer that no one religion owns — the scent of surrender, of silence, of seeking. I have wandered into temples, churches, and gurudwaras, and found in each a sliver of heaven. I have knelt on marble, sat on wooden pews, and stood beneath golden domes — all the while realising that the Divine does not ask for passports. He (or She, or simply It) only asks for presence.

What is religion, if not a song — and can a song belong to only one singer? I have found divinity not just in scriptures, but in streams and shadows, in a mother’s lullaby, a beggar’s blessing, and the wind brushing past an ancient tree.

Prayer: A Daily Return to the Centre

Each day, I return to the sacred — not out of compulsion, but out of hunger. The hunger to stay connected to that still voice within. The world often shouts; God, I’ve noticed, whispers. And it is in that whisper that I hear the truths which no sermon can teach.

Sometimes, my prayer is articulate — rich with chants and invocations. At other times, it is the quiet tear at the corner of my eye, or the deep breath that carries with it a thousand unsaid hopes.

A Philosophy of Flow

Like a river that refuses to stay trapped between man-made banks, my spirituality meanders — soft, strong, silent. I do not fear contradiction. I embrace the paradox. I believe that faith, when pure, does not divide; it dissolves boundaries. It does not insist; it invites.

The essence of every faith, stripped of politics and pride, points to the same North Star — to compassion, humility, justice, truth, and transcendence.

A Final Benediction

So yes, I practise religion — but not one that insists on one name, one book, or one path. Mine is a tapestry of verses and visions, woven not from borrowed beliefs but from deeply felt experiences. I worship not only in temples built of stone, but in the one constructed by silence, wonder, and awe.

And in this inner temple — unfenced, unbranded, unshakeable — I find the Divine waiting, always, with arms open wide.

“Wherever the heart bows with love,
There is a shrine.
Wherever the soul sings of truth,
There is a scripture.
And wherever man becomes less,
That he may meet the More —
There is religion.”

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