Between Faiths, I Learned to Be Human

I often joke that I might be the most secular person on Earth, and honestly, I can prove it. I was raised by many prayers. My parents had an interreligious marriage. My mother comes from a Christian household, my father from a Hindu household in Kerala, and I’ve grown up in a Muslim country all my life. The big three- Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam- weren’t just abstract ideas for me but were my everyday reality. I believe that this is why I’ve never been afraid of religion. On my father’s side, I grew up deeply immersed in Hindu traditions. I went to our family temple in Kerala, learned the prayers by heart, and sat beside my grandmother while she chanted along with her prayer group when they gathered at our house. I would chant with them, piously at first, but in the back of my mind, I was eagerly waiting for the snacks that followed these prayer meetings. We have visited temples all across South India as a family and have observed the rituals, learned when to bow my head, and when to close my eyes. 

My paternal grandmother’s faith was perhaps the most constant presence in all our lives. She never went to the temple for herself. It was always for us, her children and her grandchildren. When my cousin brother started college, when my cousin sister fell ill, when I was preparing for my boards and later starting college, during my brother’s university applications and my sister’s high school exams, there was always a puja she performed somewhere in the background and a prayer she whispered on our behalf.

Then there was my other side. As long as I can recall, every Christmas, my parents would wake up early and cook appam, a traditional Kerala breakfast bread, and chicken stew for breakfast. This was a core memory because Easter and Christmas were the only days of the year when my family ate breakfast together. We were never really breakfast people otherwise. On Easter, my dad would buy duck, sometimes, he’d add a little more spice and buy pork for my mom, one of her favourites. The kitchen would be filled with warmth, laughter, and the kind of happiness that only comes from shared tradition.

Our home physically made space for both faiths. In the living room stood a temple-shaped shrine with Hindu deities, and in my parents’ bedroom, there was another shrine: Mother Mary, a Bible, and a small box filled with Bible verses. That box holds some of my most cherished childhood memories. Every morning before work, my mom would pick a verse and read it as her “word for the day.” When we were younger and couldn’t read Malayalam fluently, she would make us pick one too and read it aloud, then explain it to us. We treated it like a horoscope, something to carry with us through the day. As a child, it felt magical and made faith feel gentle, personal, and alive.

There is also an almost absurd memory I return to often when I think about belief. I must have been in fourth grade, suffering from severe stomach pain, an event I still recall as a dramatic episode in my life. I have always been one of those people who feel like they are on their deathbed when they catch a slight cold, and I like to believe that I inherited this trait from my dad. At the time, one of my mom’s friends had returned from a pilgrimage and gifted her a set of holy oils in bottles. There was this set of exotic-looking bottles that were carefully arranged on a shelf but never opened. So when my mother actually took one down and gently sprinkled a few drops on my stomach, my fourth-grade self was stunned. It felt ceremonial, and I remember lying there convinced I had felt a divine touch, and in my childlike certainty, I believed that was what healed me. Faith, in that instance, had become comfort and hope for me. 

And then there was Islam, not something I practiced daily, but something I lived alongside. Growing up in a Muslim country meant being immersed in the culture from day one. Every Eid, our neighbors invited us for dinner and served what I believe to this day is the best biryani I’ve ever had. I participated in Eid celebrations all across Qatar, went to Katara, where people handed out candies to children, and absorbed the generosity that defined the season. I fasted during Ramadan once out of curiosity and respect. Ramadan was one of the most beautiful parts of my childhood, and it taught me empathy in a way no lesson ever could.

All these experiences taught me something vital. Religion is a beautiful thing, and more importantly, it taught me to approach faith holistically. I was never taught to be my religion. My dad always told us kids that the way to approach religion is to sit with it, question it, observe it, and carry forward only what made me kinder and more human while leaving behind the outdated dogmatic beliefs. This freedom allowed me to explore belief systems without fear. I was permitted to delve as deeply as I wanted into any religion without being seen as diverging from my own. I was free to ask difficult questions and examine the pros and cons of all faiths. This was how I dawned upon the realization that curiosity and reasoning can coexist and that faith does not have to crumble under curiosity.

Belief systems had always been lenses through which I viewed life, rather than labels imposed on me. I believed that they were ways of seeing the world and not cages to live inside. When you grow up looking through many lenses, you begin to understand that no single one holds the entire truth, but each holds something worth understanding. I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to unravel these mysteries, for not being forced to choose sides, and for being taught that faith was not something that has to be defended but rather something that has to be experienced. Growing up between gods, I was gently taught the essence of humanity. I strongly believe that this is what religion is meant to do when practiced properly, not divide us by what we worship, but quietly guide us back to who we are.