I pray. I’ve prayed all my life.

Prayers. Gods. Temples. They are staples of my life. Growing up in Alor Setar, I remember my dad prayed a lot.  There was always an altar in the house.  He rose early every morning. Prayed and headed off to his workplace. Let himself in as he had the keys. The first to arrive every morning. Prayed without interruption before he began his day.

My mum, not so much. With seven kids, shopping, cooking and cleaning, it’s a wonder if she had any time at all. That said, she is more than making up for it now. Her days are centred around praying and dozing off while sitting in her wing chair. Her recuperation therapy from her early 5am-5.30am daily wakeup call.

My parents weren’t weekly temple-goers but they did offer prayers and give thanks on special occasions like birthdays and anniversaries, which were frequent enough. They also attended annual celebrations like ‘Masimagam’ (very similar to Thaipusam), and ‘Panguni Utheram’ (fire walking) as well as special prayers by relatives and weddings held at the various temples. Sometimes, with all or some of my siblings, in tow. In addition, my two older brothers and I were tasked with visiting seven places of worship, representing different faiths, in and around our hometown, on Deepavali morning. Our annual pilgrimage, as we used to lament. Hmm…

For sure, my mum and dad were my earliest influencers. They introduced me to the various Gods, and there were many to identify and remember. They also taught or at least showed me the how-tos of praying. The actions of bringing my hands/palms together and prostrating such that my forehead touches the floor. Placing ‘kumkum’ and ash on the forehead. Lighting camphor or ‘sambrani’ or incense sticks, and placing my hands just over the fire of the altar lamp.   Repeating actions thrice and in a clockwise fashion. All of these were conveyed in an informal manner. No real rules. A few guidelines. I sort of watched, learnt and followed.

My parents didn’t or I don’t remember them giving me a ready text or script that was required to be read or sung. No ‘Tevarams’ or hymns. No religious texts like the ‘Vedas.’ It was pretty much freestyle. So, I prayed or just did it my way. Which was silently or very quietly saying what was in my head and in my heart. A personal conversation with God. No intermediaries. I cannot be sure but my first prayer was probably a long request for chocolates, cakes, ice-cream and good marks. In that order.  My list has since expanded to include wishes and needs of family members; my friends, occasionally, and always (this is true), for peace and the general well-being of everyone.

I don’t consciously think about prayers and praying. It is just something I do. As natural as breathing, eating and sleeping. That is until recently. Not the sleeping but the praying. After one of my everyday morning prayer. I just laughed out loud whilst standing in front of my altar. I hadn’t laughed in a while and had forgotten what it was like. A bellyaching laugh. The kind that you laugh till you cry, tears and all. I felt really good, happier and a great sense of relief.

I had offloaded my worry, anger and disappointment that was populating and propagating in my head and heart. For weeks, they were trapped almost like in a washing machine cycle with no release. My most personal and innermost thoughts all out there for my Gods to hear. I laid bare my soul, without reservation and fear of judgement. I honestly felt as if I was heard and there was more than a glimmer of hope for the situation I found myself in. I don’t know why but I thought of it like a successful therapy session. Not that I’ve been to one. But even better because I am not good at sharing my feelings with a stranger, albeit, a professional.

Praying made me happier that day. I felt connected. After all, it’s about faith and belief. I also believe – in my head – praying is a one-way, monologue that may or may not yield results or solutions that are visible or obvious to me. Over the years, I have done and still do battle with my Gods. Why this? Why that? How can? I have so many questions. Many unsatisfactory answers. But, I pray and still pray. Why? Maybe, because that’s what I do and know. Maybe, because I want to believe. Maybe, because it gives me a sense of comfort and protection from a higher being. I don’t know… As cliché as this sounds, I feel better for it.

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