our gods and goddesses

We went to the nearby city of Pompeii, which had been buried for 1,700 years under volcanic ash. Where men, women and children died slowly in their homes. Like us, among these ancient people there were the rich and the common man, the virtuous and the immoral, the rich and the poor. and deities. We walked on empty stone-paved streets that, thousands of years ago, bustled with life like the Naples it is today. An old guide, Antonio, surrounded us and said, “The gods and goddesses of Pompeii were no different from the Hindus.” He showed us a temple of Venus, with marble mosaic floors and frescoes made of vegetable dyes, depicting scenes of love. “You know, they dug up a statue of Goddess Lakshmi in Pompeii a few decades ago. Venus is similar to Lakshmi, you know?” He said. I was not sure of the connection of Venus with Lakshmi, but let her carry on. In another street, Antonio showed us a small stone temple of fertility, and said, “Look, the lingam, of the creation.” Hindu symbol.”

Outside the Pompeii ruins, the streets were filled with Christmas festivities, bright street decorations and Maradona souvenirs. We stepped into a tabachi, a small tobacco shop with figurines of nativity scenes. A row of infant Jesus was lying in his cradle, little hands raised in blessing, looking up from the glass shelf where he was placed. He reminded me of the doe-eyed Krishna sucking the toe in a basket. There’s something helpless about a newborn. And something divine. I remember a church in Cairo many years ago, where Mary hid the baby Jesus from King Herod’s men in a small cave. How sad it is for a mother to hide her baby from people who had other beliefs. How sad a child is to know that they will be persecuted when they grow up. Later, in Luxor, a Muslim guide told us that the ancient Egyptians worshiped the blue-skinned god Amun, whom many believed to be the same as the Hindu god Krishna. I wondered whether the Catholic guides in Pompeii (who thought that Venus, the goddess of love, was Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity) and the Muslim guides in Luxor (who said Amun, the god of air, was Krishna, the god of love) ) were very wrong?

About 20 years ago, I met an American whose Indian girlfriend told him that Indians believe in many things. She went to Hindu temples, Sikh temples, mosques and churches. Over the years, I started to like the idea. Two years ago, my wife and I went to the holy city of Pushkar in Rajasthan. The ancient city was spread around a calm lake, temple bells and incense filled its streets, and its air smelled of roses. At the lake, the Hindu creator god, Brahma, performed a large havan, a sacred ritual, thousands of years ago. A young priest placed red rose petals in our palms and chanted mantras for the peace of our family. Men and women took a dip in the lake, the saffron flag fluttered softly in the wind, and I felt a very calm wash over me. The priest ended the ritual of worship by applying tilak, saffron powder on our foreheads and tying red and yellow colored Mouli on our wrists. The temple of Brahma is visible from a hill, with colorful pillars and an elaborately carved silver front. The priest gave us a small red cloth bag, which contained the prasad, prasad from the temple.

On the same day, we went to nearby Ajmer to visit the shrine of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti, a 13th century Muslim saint. We passed by shops selling velvet sheets, large clothes, and prayer beads, and the aroma of sweet rice lingered in the air. We bought red roses and green sheets for the tomb of the saint. The Valley of Pushkar is famous for its roses, which were cultivated by the Mughals centuries ago to make perfumes and wines. The huge marble dome of the temple with golden flower decorations was resplendent like a temple in the afternoon sun. We enter through an elaborately carved silver front with beautiful glass fanu, chandeliers. A khadim, an attendant, threw a big black sheet at us and prayed. I stood beside my wife in the darkness of the sheets, and a deep heat overcame me. Tears welled up in my eyes. The peace I felt from the shimmering lake was no different from the calmness I felt in the darkness of the sheets. I tied a mauli on the lattice walls of the dargah and wished our family health and peace. A qawwal, a devotional singer, began to sing near a covered porch with gilded arches and slender pillars, on which were finely painted flowers and elaborate calligraphy. Khadim gave us Tabruk, Prasad from the temple. Upon my return to England, when I unpacked, a red cloth bag contained small balls of sugar and a pack of rock sugar. I could not remember whether they belonged to the temple or the temple. But it didn’t work out.

On our second day in Naples, we prepared to climb Mount Vesuvius, from where jets of gas and ash buried Pompeii. As we waited for the taxi, TVs in the hotel lobby showed Catholic churches in India being desecrated, worshipers terrorized and Jesus statues vandalised. In Italian I read two words, “estremisti indu.” I stopped. I did not like it. I didn’t want to hear that. I had never heard this phrase in my childhood. I didn’t hear it 20 years ago when an American talked about his Indian girlfriend’s liberal beliefs. what was it? Hotel Bellboy, an old man patted me on the shoulder. I started I have been living away from India for 20 years, yet I was embarrassed. I made apologetic gestures with my hands. The old man shrugged his shoulders. He calmly showed me to the waiting taxi.

I climbed to the top of Mount Vesuvius, a steep incline, my thoughts in a tizzy. The crater at the top opened its wide mouth, telling me that in its unpredictability lies human vulnerability. That it can throw hundreds of rocks and fire, smoke and ashes at any given moment. that we were fragile. Despite our Venus and Lakshmi, Zeus and Shiva, Amun and Krishna. Mountain gas captured the people of Pompeii by their fountains of cold water, their pots and pots, their sculpted houses and frescoed brothels, their bustling streets and quiet temples. Sleep, think, speak, walk. The pit laughed as I looked into the depths of it.

Why were we tearing up places of love and hope and peace, it asked?

From the deep depths of the crater rose a sulphurous steam, which was moving sluggishly near me. Its steamy flames whispered in my ear that the invisible can attack us, lock us in our homes, bring our lives to a standstill, turn our bustling cities into ghost towns . It asked me if I knew what a human being wanted? I replied that we need peace and health and love. We needed our gods and goddesses. Whether it comes as a molly on the wrist, a velvet sheet in the tomb, worship on the banks of the lake, or the smile of a newborn Jesus.

Sandeep Raina is a writer based in the UK. His debut novel, A Bit of Everything (Context), was shortlisted for the Tata Lit Live First Book Prize (Fiction) 2021