In two days, we mark the firewalking ceremony of Theemithi, a festival that has been part of my life for as long as I can remember.
Growing up, I attended the annual firewalking prayers at Sri Mariamman Temple along South Bridge Road. It was something I looked forward to every year, and even now, in my 30s, it remains one of my favourite times of the year.
I grew up surrounded by Hindu traditions, but I wouldn’t say that everything I know about my faith came from my family alone. Some things I learnt from friends, others from complete strangers at the temple. Sometimes, the most interesting conversations came from simply asking why a particular ritual was performed or listening to someone explain a story differently from how I had heard it growing up.
And that’s something I’ve always appreciated about Hinduism. There is so much to learn, and just when you think you’ve understood something, another interpretation comes along and makes you think again.
My connection with Mariamman and Draupadi, however, has always been particularly personal.
As a child, I was fascinated by their stories. As I grew older, I began looking at them differently. Both are revered as divine, but what stayed with me was how much suffering, injustice and loneliness featured in the stories I grew up hearing.
Draupadi’s story in the Mahabharatam is one that I find especially powerful. Here was a woman with five husbands, surrounded by respected elders and powerful men, yet when she was humiliated in the royal court, so many of those who should have protected her failed to act. She questioned the injustice, challenged those who remained silent and held on to her faith in Krishna.
Imagine being surrounded by people and still having to fight for your dignity alone.
Mariamman’s stories differ across traditions, but I grew up understanding her as a mother who knew suffering and hardship yet remained a source of protection and healing for others. There was something about that which stayed with me.
I think the purity I associate with these goddesses has very little to do with perfection. Neither strength nor goodness necessarily means remaining silent, accepting mistreatment or never becoming angry. Draupadi was angry, and rightfully so.
What I admire is their ability to hold on to what was right despite everything they endured. Their suffering did not take away their strength or their divinity. If anything, the stories made me think more deeply about what those qualities actually mean.
Perhaps that explains why I’ve always felt such a strong connection with Amma.
I cannot quite explain the peace I experience when I visit her temple. There have been periods in my life when everything felt unnecessarily loud, and simply being there brought me some comfort. Not necessarily because something miraculous happened or because all my problems suddenly disappeared. Sometimes, it was just nice to be somewhere I didn’t have to explain myself.
And the funny thing is, my conversations with Amma aren’t restricted to the temple.
There are days when I’m going about my life, something ridiculous happens, and I find myself looking up at the sky going, “WHY, MOTHER, WHY?!” like Joey from Friends.
Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I complain. Occasionally, I question her about the rather baffling sequence of events unfolding in my life.
I suppose that’s the relationship I have with God. It isn’t always formal, and it certainly isn’t limited to the number of times I visit a temple or the prayers I perform.
Which brings me to something I’ve been thinking about for a while.
I believe everyone’s relationship with God is deeply personal.
When I think about how I developed my own understanding of faith, I realise how much of it was shaped by the people around me. My family introduced me to Hinduism, but the people I encountered throughout my life added different perspectives to what I had already learnt.
Some understood religious practices differently. Others had their own ways of praying, interpreting scriptures or expressing devotion. It made me realise that even within the same religion, our experiences and understanding can be remarkably different.
We inherit much of our religious understanding before we’re old enough to question it. We observe the adults around us, participate in the traditions they introduce us to and gradually associate those practices with what it means to have faith.
But as we grow older, our experiences begin to influence that understanding. We meet people who practise differently, encounter beliefs that challenge our own and sometimes find ourselves questioning things we once accepted without much thought.
I think that’s a natural part of growing up. The religion we are introduced to as children and the faith we develop as adults may come from the same place, but they don’t necessarily remain identical.
Some people find meaning in elaborate rituals, while others prefer quiet prayers. Some have unwavering faith, and others struggle with it. There are people who find peace in religion and people whose experiences have led them to distance themselves from it entirely.
I’ve come to appreciate that I don’t need to understand or agree with another person’s relationship with God to respect it. After all, the beliefs and experiences that shaped my understanding may be entirely different from theirs.
And recognising that has also changed how I look at religion itself.
Religion, culture, tradition and spirituality are often spoken about interchangeably, although they aren’t necessarily the same thing. Religion provides systems of belief and worship, culture influences how communities express those beliefs, and traditions carry practices through generations. Spirituality, at least in my understanding, concerns the meaning we draw from them and how that meaning influences the way we live.
Of course, they overlap. But recognising their differences has helped me approach certain practices with greater curiosity rather than immediately accepting or dismissing them.
Some traditions have practical or historical explanations that are fascinating to discover. Others carry symbolic meanings that cannot necessarily be measured scientifically, yet remain significant to the people practising them. And then there are cultural expectations that have become so deeply associated with religion that questioning them is sometimes treated as questioning God.
That’s where I tend to disagree.
I don’t think every practice passed down through generations must be preserved without question. Culture evolves, societies change and our understanding of the world becomes more informed. Some practices deserve appreciation, while others deserve examination, especially when they reinforce inequality, fear or unnecessary restrictions.
At the same time, I don’t believe everything needs a scientific explanation to have personal meaning. Not every prayer, festival or ritual has to demonstrate a measurable benefit to justify why someone finds comfort in it.
There is room for both reason and belief, provided we are willing to recognise their differences.
For me, respecting religion does not mean suspending my ability to think critically. Neither does asking questions mean that my devotion is somehow incomplete. I can appreciate the significance a tradition holds for someone without necessarily believing that I should practise it myself.
Interestingly, the more I began questioning certain practices, the more curious I became about the philosophy behind the religion I had grown up with.
And perhaps that’s what I find most fascinating about Hinduism.
Beyond the festivals, temples and traditions lies an enormous body of philosophical thought concerned with the nature of existence, human behaviour, suffering, responsibility and liberation. Concepts such as dharma, karma and moksha invite us to examine how we live, the intentions behind our actions and our understanding of ourselves.
Even these concepts are interpreted differently across Hindu philosophical traditions, which makes exploring them all the more interesting.
Dharma, for instance, is often translated as duty or righteousness, but understanding what is right is not always as straightforward as following a fixed set of rules. Our responsibilities can conflict with one another, and what is expected of us may not always be what is morally sound.
This brings me back to Draupadi.
When she questioned the elders in the royal court, she was not simply challenging those in authority. She was raising a fundamental question about justice and righteousness. What does duty mean when the very people entrusted with upholding it remain silent in the face of injustice?
The Mahabharatam explores these moral complexities beautifully. Its characters are constantly confronted with difficult decisions, conflicting responsibilities and consequences that cannot always be neatly categorised as good or bad. Even those regarded as noble or virtuous are not beyond moral examination.
I think there is something deeply human about that.
Similarly, karma is often casually reduced to the idea that good things happen to good people and bad things happen to bad people. But its philosophical meanings are considerably more complex than that. I find it more useful to reflect on the relationship between our actions, intentions and consequences than to assume that every misfortune is a punishment someone must have deserved.
Because life simply doesn’t work that neatly.
Good people suffer. People who have done terrible things sometimes appear to live perfectly comfortable lives. And not every painful experience arrives with an explanation that makes it easier to accept.
Perhaps that’s also why I’ve never been particularly drawn to the idea that faith should guarantee a life without difficulties.
For me, faith has never meant that everything will turn out exactly as I hope. There are circumstances I cannot control, questions I cannot answer and experiences I may never fully understand.
What spirituality has encouraged me to do, however, is examine what remains within my control: my decisions, my intentions, my conduct and the values I choose to uphold, even when circumstances are less than favourable.
And this is where I find the philosophical side of Hinduism particularly meaningful. It encourages me to look beyond what I believe and consider how those beliefs influence the way I live.
It also makes me think about the difference between performing goodness and actually practising it.
A person may be deeply religious, attend every prayer and observe every ritual, but how do those beliefs translate into their treatment of others? Are they compassionate? Are they fair? Do they recognise their own shortcomings? Are they willing to acknowledge when they have caused harm?
I ask these questions of myself too, because it would be rather convenient to apply philosophical standards to everyone else while quietly exempting myself.
I am certainly not suggesting that being spiritual makes someone morally superior. If anything, I think the willingness to examine ourselves should make us more aware of how much we still have to learn.
The more I explore these ideas, the more I realise that spirituality, for me, isn’t something separate from everyday life. It is reflected in how we make decisions, navigate difficult relationships, respond to injustice and treat people when there is nothing to gain from being kind.
And strangely enough, this deeper interest in understanding my faith has also made me appreciate the traditions I grew up with in a different way.
As a child, I understood devotion largely through what I saw and participated in: the prayers, the festivals, the stories and the traditions that brought families and communities together.
As an adult, I still cherish those things. But I have become equally interested in what they are teaching me and whether I am actually applying those lessons beyond the temple grounds.
I haven’t stopped believing in the goddess I grew up praying to. Nor have I felt the need to abandon the traditions that connect me to my upbringing. I simply find myself appreciating them through a different lens.
And this year, especially, that connection has felt different.
For much of my life, I have approached Amma with prayers, hopes and requests, as many of us naturally do. But this year, after everything life had brought with it, I found myself wanting something else.
I wanted to return to her.
Not because I had stopped believing or because I had forgotten the traditions I grew up with. But somewhere between growing older, managing responsibilities and dealing with the occasional chaos of adulthood, I realised how much I missed the connection I once had with her.
I missed being able to immerse myself in the prayers without having a hundred other things occupying my mind. I missed the simplicity of showing up because I wanted to be there, rather than because I needed something to happen in my life.
And so, this year, I didn’t approach Amma with a particular wish or a long list of requests.
I simply wanted to find my way back to her.
Perhaps that’s why Theemithi has remained so close to my heart. Every year, I return to a tradition that has accompanied me through different stages of my life. I recognise the prayers, the familiar surroundings and the devotion of the people gathered there. There are things I remember from childhood that still bring me the same sense of comfort today.
Yet, I am no longer the little girl who first stood among those crowds watching the prayers.
I’ve grown older, experienced more of life, questioned things I once accepted and changed my mind about others. My understanding of religion has evolved, and I imagine it will continue to do so.
But what I find particularly comforting is that growing into my own understanding of faith hasn’t made those childhood experiences any less meaningful. If anything, I appreciate them more because I now understand why they matter to me.
I don’t think faith needs to remain unchanged for it to be sincere. Neither do I think we need to arrive at the same conclusions about religion or spirituality to respect one another.
There is still plenty I don’t know, and I suspect there will always be questions I cannot answer. But I’m comfortable with that. I would much rather continue learning, questioning and reflecting than pretend I have everything figured out.
And through all of that, my relationship with Amma remains something deeply personal.
Sometimes I visit her temple. Sometimes I sit quietly and pray. Other times, I look up at the sky and have a rather dramatic conversation about whatever life has decided to throw at me that day.
I don’t know if that’s how everyone speaks to God. I don’t think it needs to be.
After all, some conversations are best kept between a mother and her child.
Leave a Reply