For a very long time, I lived in a world that was driven by a single and undisputed narrative – God exists and is watching all of us. I was a child who never questioned anything, even though it made the least sense in the world that I am living. But as the years passed and my frontal lobe started to develop, I began to ask questions I was taught to ignore. In doing so, I stepped outside the shackles of beliefs that were holding me, and in the eyes of the society and “my dear family” that raised me, I slowly became the bad guy.
As a young boy, I was captivated by the divine God and loved them very dearly. My love was till that point that I used to draw them whenever I got a chance. My parents used to buy me stacks of drawing paper, and I would spend hours drawing and sketching those Gods and Goddesses. Whether it be the fierce form of Durga, or the serene beauty of Laxmi, or the charming Krishna, or Vishnu, who stood on the beautiful lotus. I was a soft-spoken, obedient child, so much so that everyone often compared me to Siddhartha Gautam, and said my character matches the name that I am given.
Faith was not just a concept, it was a part of my lifestyle. I believed with an innocent and unshakeable certainty that God was actively watching over me. I found immense comfort in helping my mom and grandmother perform puja or some holy rituals. I used to love making colorful mandalas during Tihar, visiting pandals during Dashain, decorating Christmas trees, and joining in family pujas. Whenever the world around me felt heavy, I used faith as my energy booster. Whenever my parents used to fight, or there was a serious loud discussion in the family, I would press my palms over my ears and whisper divine names like a protective spell until the silence returned. The ancient epics of the Ramayana and Mahabharata were not just stories to me, but they were the holy bedrock of my universe.
As I entered my teenage years, the time when many people usually turn away from God, I was instead deepened in devotion. I carefully cut out images of Ram, Lakshman, Sita, and Hanuman, and taped it inside my school geometry box. I used to wear a Rudraksha and a Ganesh bracelet that I had since I was very young. One of my biggest fears during those days, were the storms – sky rumbling in violent noise, and wind so powerful enough to blow roofs. Whenever that fear triggered me, I used to call my parents in the office and ask them to return home as fast as they could. They handed me a small book of Hanuman Chalisa, saying that reading it would ward off all my fears. To this day, I can still recite Hanuman Chalisa, as well as other mantras like Gayatri Mantra, Ganesh Mantra, and the main verse of Bhagavad Gita. I also enjoyed singing Krishna bhajans with my mom’s friend, while she played piano.
My affection for the divine God was not just exclusive to my religion, as I respected the faith of other religions too even before I fully understood it. I used to love Bible stories, loved how Jesus was a loving and kind being, celebrating Christmas, decorating the tree, and singing Christmas carols with pure joy. Even if my family used to be upset with me for singing the praise of Jesus, I would still say I love Jesus.
Then, at the age of thirteen, a TV show widened my view on Islam. Before, I have never tried to learn about Islam, but after this TV show started, I was fascinated by it. I started learning Islamic Kalmas and Urdu vocabularies, and even learned how to pray like Muslims do – face towards Mecca, hand placements, face movements. Even during my exams, I used to pray in both Hindu and Muslim style, and that continued for a few years. Years later, when I walked into the historic Jama Masjid in Delhi, and bowed my head in prayer, I felt a deep, undeniable sense of spiritual fulfillment.
Yet, beneath this rich tapestry of devotion, quiet cracks had existed from the beginning. Even as a child, certain religious norms felt deeply contradictory. How could a culture that revered powerful goddesses like Durga, Kali, Laxmi, and Parvati simultaneously subjugate women and label them weak? How could people justify ritual animal sacrifice in the name of a compassionate deity? The systemic cruelty of the caste system repulsed me, as did the exclusion of dogs from temple grounds, while the very same animals we worshipped during Kukur Tihar as the sacred mounts of Kaal Bhairav.
For a long time, Kaal Bhairav was my Istadev. Passing his shrine at Basantapur, I would stop to recite the Kaal Bhairav Ashtakam with quiet awe. I drew strength from the fierce, untamed manifestations of the divine Bhairav, Mahakali, and Durga, whose terrifying forms felt far more empowering than gentle deities. I loved the legends of Lord Ganesh, and one of my persistent childhood dreams was to travel to Mumbai to experience the grand scale of Ganesh Chaturthi.
However, the shift did not happen overnight; it began with a single, uninvited thought late at night… “What if none of this is real?"
The thread began to unravel when I looked closer at the stories I had cherished. Taken literally, the narrative of Noah’s Ark, such as fitting millions of animal species onto a single wooden vessel to survive a global flood defied every law of biology, ecology, and physics. Once that domino fell, the rest followed in rapid succession. I began to view the parting of the Red Sea, the splitting of the moon, Hanuman carrying an entire Himalayan mountain across the subcontinent, and the birth of a hundred Kauravas from a single mass of flesh for what they truly were: grand, legendary folklore. While these stories contained moral metaphors, they had no grounding in physical reality.
I do not necessarily doubt that historical figures like Jesus, the Buddha, or Muhammad walked the earth. What I could no longer accept were the supernatural claims attached to them such as turning water into wine, floating across oceans, or altering the cosmos. Science has unearthed concrete, physical evidence of dinosaurs and prehistoric organisms that lived millions of years ago, persisting through mass extinctions. Yet, there is not a single shred of empirical evidence for a global flood forty five hundred years ago or the world-shattering weaponry of the Mahabharata.
Furthermore, creation myths clashed directly with verifiable science. Religions claimed the universe was spoken into existence in a few days or crafted by a singular parent like Brahma. They placed Adam and Eve at the starting line of humanity, entirely omitting the proven history of biological evolution. The rigid framework of Hindu yugas claimed that Ram lived in Treta Yuga and Krishna in Dvapara Yuga millions of years ago, yet the geological record shows no human civilizations alongside the ancient reptiles that actually ruled those epochs.
The logical breakdowns were even more devastating than the scientific ones. Believers often describe God as an all-powerful, all-loving father who shields the innocent. If that is true, why is the human experience defined by unspeakable suffering? The common theological defense that suffering is merely the harvest of bad karma from a past life felt morally bankrupt to me. I could never accept that an innocent child subjected to violence or abuse was paying off an unproven debt from a forgotten past existence. I could not believe that animals, entirely devoid of malice, were suffering due to divine curses.
If an ordinary human stood by and watched a crime occur without intervening despite having the absolute power to stop it, we would brand that person a monster. Why, then, do we excuse a deity who sits idly by while the innocent perish, only to promise punishment in some distant afterlife? If God possesses total power yet refuses to prevent horror, then that entity is neither all-good nor all-powerful. And the argument of "free will" falls apart the moment we consider prayer. If God cannot interfere with human agency, why do billions spend their lives begging God to intervene in their daily affairs?
Looking back at my own life, the illusion shattered entirely. My academic successes were not answered prayers; they were the direct result of late nights and discipline. When my exams went poorly, it was because I had failed to prepare, not because a deity was displeased. When I desperately prayed for my family to stay together, my parents still divorced. I realized that asking my human parents for help yielded tangible results, while crying out to the sky daddy brought only silence.
In my lowest moments, no divine hand reached down to pull me up. I dried my own tears. I pulled myself out of the dark. I survived, I failed, I fought, and succeeded through my own endurance and hard work. The Hanuman Chalisa had not cured my fear of storms, an even more powerful disaster than the storm, made me immune to it. People say God works in mysterious ways, but I never saw the pattern on how they work.
Today, I view religion for what it largely is, a psychological coping mechanism, and an ancient system of peer pressure passed down through generations of unquestioned habit. I have stopped performing rituals simply because they are traditional, and celebrating festivals that are regressive and make no sense at all. I no longer wear the tika or visit temples expecting a favor from the sky. I tore up my kundali, sick of watching astrologers offer conflicting predictions that caused real-world distress. I no longer believe in reincarnation, an afterlife, or cosmic fate. I believe in action, consequence, and human responsibility.
Now, I am the bad guy as people say – they believe the internet and being too “woke” has corrupted my thinking abilities. Ironically, shedding my faith has exposed the deep performative nature of religion around me. I routinely see self-proclaimed religious people treat their fellow human beings and animals with absolute cruelty, hiding behind ritual purity while ignoring basic empathy. Yet, because I choose to think critically, refuse regressive traditions, and demand evidence, society labels me as "corrupted" or "lost."
If using my reason to question an unproven divine power makes me the bad guy, I accept the title willingly. I do not seek to insult the faith of others, but I will no longer stay silent in the face of illogical, harmful dogmas. Even if a real supreme being were to manifest before me today and demand my devotion, I would refuse to bow. A deity that watches a world of suffering from a safe distance does not deserve worship. As an anonymous prisoner carved into a wooden wall during the horrors of the Holocaust: "If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness.”
