I look for God in quiet places

I spent the weekend with God.

Alright, I suppose that's a bit presumptuous of me. God is everywhere, right? And then again, what kind of proof do I have that GOD chose to spend the weekend with ME?

The simple fact is that my family decided it was time to go on a little pilgrimage, and I happened to trudge along. Though, to be fair, it was I who planted the idea in their minds. But that's just what I do- throw a wild card in their muddled midst, and then stand back and observe from a safe distance, as if I were watching tear gas envelope a mob.

The church of Velankanni, near Nagapattinam, is considered to be among the holiest shrines of Mary, Mother of God, well, actually, Mother of Jesus. So that's where we went. Velankanni constitutes a huge chunk of my childhood memories and associations, because that trip was the closest thing to a family vacation we had all those years, and even now. I remember every single thing- the beach, the walk to Our Lady's tank, the many colored rosaries I used to fall in love with and beg my mother to buy, the shops selling candles, garlands, little kids not much older than me at the time selling stickers of the divine Lady, and of course, the church.

I have to admit, that church is something special. Entirely white, it rises out of the otherwise drab and dreary landscape, spiraling toward heaven. It demands that anyone in the vicinity must stop and gaze, at least in awe, if not in devotion. I loved to gaze upon it at the unearthly hour that I used to be woken up in order to be in time for the first mass at 5 30 a.m. With eyes full of sleep, I'd walk alongside my father, a leftover chill hanging about the air, and always, my first glimpse of the church against a patch of open sky was the thing that shook me completely out of slumber.

But that was as a child. I grew up, and turned into someone who didn't feel particularly spiritual in the presence of hordes of people, praying rather fanatically. I hate to say it, but the truth was, for a lot of people around me, religion was more of a social obligation than an actual connection with God. And I couldn't do that. So I looked for God elsewhere. I looked for God in quiet places.

Still, I took the plunge this year, because I desperately wanted to feel something, any kind of connection with God at all. The crowds suffocated me, still, I bore it. I watched as my parents knelt down and prayed. It was the most sincere I've ever seen them. I watched my grandmother with tears in her eyes, and I had to look away, to wonder at my own inability to feel.

And just when I began to wonder if this was a wasted effort, it was 5 30 a.m. all over again. And as always, I had to stop and stare. Of course, there were loud speakers blaring prayers and all around me, people were getting off overnight buses, drinking scalding hot cups of coffee on the roadside and hurrying toward the church, the sea sand managed to wriggle its way into the insides of my toes, I had to keep my kurta from flapping around and pulling a Monroe on me.

But just for a moment, all those distractions ceased to exist. The sky, still dark everywhere else, was magically open just above the church spire. There were no bells clanging yet, so they hung still in the distance. And the church itself, the focal point of the masses milling around, its huge compound gates thrown wide open to anyone who cared to enter. Anyone at all, who wanted to say to God, 'hear me out please'.

And so I entered those gates. In that moment of quiet, I decided to go looking for God.