Religion is many things. It is the smell of jasmine and incense. It is the sound of MS Subbulakshmi’s voice. It is the peal of temple bells. It is the hard ground beneath my knees as I kneel at a church. It is the cloth over my head at a dargah. It is faith. It is belief. It is sustenance. It is the fanaticism that’s propelling terror across the world. It is the ticket that has made and un-made countless political careers. It is breathtakingly huge. It is intimate. It is public. It is private. It is my caste. It is being Brahmin in a society that only condemns every community for one thing or another. No-one is equal. No-one is better off. Religion is fervour. It is peace. God is a word. God is a rock. God is in my heart. And yours. On a Raja Ravi Verma painting. Carved into a plastic key-chain. God is who I remember when I wake up. And when I go to sleep. Much of my life has been anchored by an old temple. I have a photograph of it, fifty-four years ago, my mother a toddler, my grandparents proud, an extended family beaming. God is in that photograph. God is in my memories of plucking flowers, ringing the bell, praying for marks for success for love for money for a job for a promotion for health for me for my parents for my lover for my friend. God is here. There. Everywhere. In the rising strains of a bhajan. In the steady rhythm of the rain. In the pristine blue seas. God is. And I live safe in that knowledge.

Title line from ‘The Wasteland’ by TS Eliot