Arise Bharat

In those days, we worked even on public holidays. One such morning I arrived late to the office, having attended an RSS baithak. It resulted in a small professional embarrassment: my team was already waiting for approvals. Apologies were exchanged, work resumed, and the moment passed—though the day had only just begun.

Later, during a quiet lull between tasks, Jessica discovered where I had been that morning. She is a Christian—thoughtful, articulate, and an editor by profession—and spends much of her time outside work engaged in church activities.

She looked at me with a mixture of concern and curiosity.
“You’re such a decent man,” she said. “Always fair, always considerate. You should be careful—those RSS people might brainwash you.”

I smiled. “I’ve been attending RSS shakhas since childhood. Two decades—surely long enough for them to brainwash anyone, if that’s what they’re out to do.”

Her surprise was unmistakable. “Since childhood? And yet you don’t discriminate against people based on their religion?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t even have to think about it. Treating everyone fairly is simply the norm in the RSS. It’s expected of every volunteer. The elders live it; one observes it and quietly admires it. That’s what I absorbed growing up.”

She didn’t argue, though she didn’t seem entirely convinced. I added lightly, “If you think I’m fair-minded, you should meet some of the people I’ve known there. Many are far more patient and generous than I am.”

After a pause, she asked the question she had clearly been holding back.
“Then why do RSS people object when we go out preaching the Bible? Why do they seem uncomfortable—especially when evangelists go among the poor?”

I offered a comparison. “You’re an experienced editor. How would you feel if I suddenly decided to teach you the alphabet?”

She laughed. “I’d be offended, of course.”

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s how We Hindus feel. We may lack many things, but religion isn’t one of them. It has surrounded us for centuries; it’s woven into everyday life.”

A few days later, over breakfast at the office, I asked about her son.

“He’s doing well,” she said, clearly pleased. “He’s learning a few instruments with the church choir.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said. “And how is he with Christian theology, given your own enthusiasm?”

Her face brightened. “He can now explain and defend his faith.” He was only finishing seventh grade.

“Defend it?” I asked gently. “Does it need defending?”

She paused, slightly taken aback. “I only meant that he understands it properly.”

I nodded. “That’s something we Hindus aren’t particularly good at. We don’t always introduce our children to our own scriptures.”

She smiled knowingly. “I’ve noticed. Many Hindu children seem uncertain about what they believe.”

I asked, “Tell me, if given a choice, what you’d really prefer: a lavish five-star buffet with endless options or a carefully curated four-course meal?”

“The buffet, every time,” she said without hesitation.

“Exactly,” I replied, “Hinduism is like a luxury buffet – an enormous spread of philosophies, ideas, and paths, each complete in its own way. When you’re presented with so much, a little confusion is natural; it’s born of abundance, not emptiness.”

She smiled—thoughtful rather than convinced—and we returned to our breakfast.