The power of devotion
On this bright, clear morning, I’m sitting on the banks of the Ganga River in Varanasi (Benares), one of humanity’s oldest continuously inhabited cities. But Varanasi is not only famous for its historical significance (“Benares was already ancient city when the Buddha walked its streets,” to paraphrase Salman Rushdie), it is also one of the holiest places for devout Hindus. Thousands of temples, shrines, and ashrams are scattered throughout this mesmerizing jumble of sandstone, concrete, and marble, but the most enigmatic of its many sacred sites is located right next to me: the public cremation grounds on the riverbank. Being cremated here, on the stone steps that lead down to the water, is said to guarantee the soul of the deceased the immediate attainment of moksha, liberation from the cycle of birth and death. And while I tried hard not to intrude on any such proceedings, it’s almost impossible to evade them. As you approach the river, the labyrinthine alleys become narrower and narrower, compressing a motley crowd of pilgrims, tourists, and mourners into a single sweating, weeping, praying mass. Struggling not to get crushed, alas, makes maintaining a respectful distance a completely hopeless endeavor.
Varanasi, itself home to about 1.2 million people, attracts more than a million visitors each year. They come from all corners of India, not only to bury their dead, but also to pay homage to Lord Shiva, one of the major deities of Hinduism. As I explored the place on foot, I encountered him almost everywhere: He’s painted on walls, lurking in shrines, mounted on temple roofs. Countless cafes, bars, restaurants, and roadside stalls are named after him. It took me a second to realize that he’s even in my hotel’s wifi password—albeit in disguise: “Mahadev,” as it turns out, is just one of Shiva’s aliases. And his ubiquitous iconography is also a bit confusing: Sometimes he’s depicted as black as night with a shining golden trident. Sometimes he’s blue, sprouting many arms and legs. Sometimes he’s got long, flowing black hair and amazing abs. Sometimes he’s a woman.
I had tried to make sense of Hinduism and its pantheon of gods and deities before coming here, but to no avail. To an outsider, it’s all one big, colorful ball of confusion. Where to begin? The Vedas, stories at least as old as the Old Testament, form the core of Hinduism’s sacred texts—yet no one has bothered to edit them for clarity or consistency. Key plot points, such as the creation of the universe, appear in several stories that contradict each other. And from the many creation myths onward, things only get more puzzling. Brama, Shiva, and Vishnu form the Trimurti, the holy Hindu trinity. But each of them appears in many different incarnations. Shiva is also known as Mahadev or Hara. Krishna is an avatar of Vishnu. Ganesh (often, but not always, depicted with his iconic elephant head) is the son of Vishnu and his wife Parvati. She’s also known as Uma or Gauri and is one of the three principal deities who form the Tridevi, the female counterparts of the Trimurti. And it goes on and on.
Hinduism, it turns out, is not a finite collection of stories, beliefs, and rituals. Neither has it been as strictly canonized as Christianity or Judaism, nor is there a single institution with absolute governing authority like the Holy See in the Catholic Church. It’s more like a buffet than an a la carte meal. While the ultimate goal of all its adherents is self-realization there are an infinite number of ways to achieve this blessed state. Which deities one choses to worship, which rituals to observe, which temples to visit, and which shrines to pray at are, in theory, personal choices. In practice, however, these things are often passed down through generations, and they’re intertwined with social status, education, class, caste, and family history. And one’s heritage is not something that’s taken lightly in Hinduism: Follow the Ganga River upstream from Varanasi for about 1,000 km, and you’ll arrive in Haridwar, another holy city. There, a vast genealogical record of most of India’s Hindu population is kept, which can be used to trace one’s ancestry back centuries.
Coming from a country where spirituality doesn’t play a major role in most people’s lives—including my own—I’ve been astounded by the vividness and ubiquity of religious devotion, not only in Varanasi but all over India. More than 80% of the population identify as practicing Hindus. That’s more than 1 billion people who regularly perform rituals in a temple, attend services, make offerings, or go on pilgrimage. Followers of Sikhism, Jainism, and Buddhism are much smaller in number—still tens of millions, mind you—but no less committed to their respective faiths. And that’s impossible even for a clueless visitor to miss: Not only do Hindu women proudly display their bindi (a bright red dot painted between the eyes), but men of all ages likewise anoint themselves with tilak, colorful marks on the forehead, often to signal the primary deity they worship. Sikhs naturally stand out with their long beards and brightly died turbans. But its not only the devotees themselves: cars, motorcycles, even cows and sheep are painted with religious symbols such as the swastika or the Om ligature. Murals of Hinduism’s many deities embellish countless buildings.
Interestingly, the ways in which believers of all faiths, but Hindus in particular, integrate religious practices into their daily lives are constantly changing here. As income levels rise and a wave of modernization and digitization sweeps the country, for instance, devotees are increasingly turning to their smartphones to connect with the divine. According to the Economist, in the first 10 months of 2024 alone, faith-based startups in India raised more than $50 million in venture funding. Some of these apps have already turned virtual offerings, AI-powered astrology, or live-streamed worship services into profitable businesses. And as the share of India’s vast population with access to smartphones and high-speed internet grows, this market is poised to thrive for years to come.
Fascinating as this is, however, religiosity in India is far from a benign curiosity. Over the past decade, especially since Narendra Modi and his Hindu nationalist party came to power in 2014, religion has once again become a dividing line among the country’s 1.4 billion people. Historically, tensions between the Hindu majority and the Muslim minority (numbering about 200 million today) have always been a source for discord, but an upsurge in sectarian violence over the last 10 years is undeniable. To take just one example: An elderly muslim man was recently assaulted by a group of young Hindus on a train—because they alleged him of possessing cow meat. Stories of muslim boys being lynched for similar accusations, mosques being defiled by angry mobs or houses set on fire by vigilante bands are so common that they seldom make front-page news. At the same time, Mr. Modi and the BJP have repeatedly trumped up the unfounded claim that Hinduism were under threat from the country’s minority groups to rally support for their political agenda—as well as to distract from the government’s shortcomings. It’s not surprising that such appeals resonate with much of India’s rural, undereducated population, but its despicable how this often culminates in devastating violence.
I think that today, there’s hardly a country where the immense power of religious devotion can be felt as strongly as in India. This power, however, is a double edged sword: On the one hand, it can be used to connect people to do tremendous good—think for example of Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity, which spread from Kolkatta to more than 100 countries to help the poorest of the poor. But it can also be exploited to instigate and justify horrific violence, create artificial divisions, and to curtail personal freedoms.
Trying to take a non-judgmental point of view, I remain curious to see where India goes from here: Will rising levels of education and wealth, as well as the empowerment of women and minorities, lead to an enlightened pushback against religiosity by and large, as has happened in most Western countries? And if it does, will India’s society be better or worse off as a result? Or will politicians, reluctant to give up a powerful tool for mass mobilization, instead try to curb secularist movements? Or will India, as it has so often done in the past, forge a unique path into the future—perhaps one in which ancient beliefs and modern technology merge into something unprecedented?
As I write these thoughts in my notebook, smoke from a nearby funeral pyre drifts across the river, the acrid smell mixing with that of burning incense and cow dung. About ten meters in front of me stands a thin man wearing nothing but a bright orange loincloth. His hair is long and unkempt, and his upper body is covered with some sort of ash. He’s chanting as he splashes Ganga water all over himself. From what I’ve read so far, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if, after he’s dried off, he picks up an iPhone to light a virtual candle in a temple somewhere.