We are a land of festivals, and they arrive fast, whether you like it or not. I attended an annual gathering for our community at a temple. It was either that or no dinner for me that night—the meal was being served at the temple. It had been raining intermittently for a few days.
I arrived around 8:30 pm. Dinner was scheduled for 9. My plan was straightforward: socialize for thirty minutes, eat well, then escape to get bullied at online Ludo. Yes, my life is exactly as thrilling as it sounds.
The hall was packed, but experience had taught me to scan for empty seats. I found two chairs at the far end of the massive space. A bhajan sandhya was underway—voices rising in song while bodies swayed to the rhythm. It felt too loud sometimes, but to each their own. I was there to wait for dinner.
I sat quietly, mentally organizing how to spend the next thirty minutes. Make my offering at the deity’s feet. Exchange namastes with familiar faces so they’d remember my presence. Then return to my chair and wait for 9 o’clock. And I had my phone—Reddit doomscrolling would be my savior again, as it has been on numerous occasions.
But in an old building crammed with people, sitting at the hall’s far edge, my phone barely managed LTE+. Truly, the dark ages. I noticed this misfortune at 8:45, leaving me fifteen minutes to endure without distraction. I’m making this sound dramatic, but I complain when I am hungry.
The temple looked stunning. Bright red acrylic cutouts shaped like trishuls—symbols of our deity—hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the fan’s breeze. Fresh marigolds draped every surface. Everyone wore their finest clothes, colors vibrant under the lights. It was everything you could imagine and more.
A lead singer danced as he sang, his energy infectious. Devotees responded with rhythmic clapping and genuine smiles. The devotees showed approval with claps and smiles on their faces. They looked delighted. An uncle beside me struck up a conversation, chewing tobacco while explaining how he’d arrived early, yet certain temple board members disliked him and kept him from participating in important activities.
I wanted to tell him that life always has winners and losers—what could anyone do about it? Instead, I deflected politely, insisting I cared nothing for temple politics. I was there for the goddess and my faith. He seemed to accept this. At least I hoped so.
Nine o’clock came and went. My patience began fraying. I called and messaged my father, who was somewhere in the dancing crowd up front. The noise swallowed his ringtone completely. When I finally caught his attention minutes later, he informed me that dinner had been pushed to 9:30.
Great. If only I could cook. Still, maybe this delay wasn’t entirely bad. Perhaps I’d find something to appreciate. The singer had found his groove now, launching into a bhajan even I recognized. Fifty or sixty people rose and moved toward the front. Something like a spiritual mosh pit was taking shape.
Everyone gathered around the singer, joining his dance. Arms raised, hands clapping in unison. People embraced and moved together. Nothing unusual—I’d attended this event annually since childhood, and the scene remained unchanged from a decade ago.
Yet I’d never truly noticed how faith and hope could generate such pure joy. Middle-aged women danced with abandon. Men clasped hands and pulled others into their circle. The room grew stifling, but the heat only seemed to amplify everyone’s enthusiasm.
I saw what real happiness looks like. In that moment, I understood how distant I remained from finding my own.