The Ultimate Question

It has been quite some time since I last saw Dr. Sinha. Approaching the cement platform, where I expect to find him, I notice a change. The street, once in pitch darkness, is now lighted with fluorescent streetlights. It is not as dark and foreboding as it used to be, but some of the charm and mystique of the place has been lost.

Dr. Sinha is as glad to see me, as I am to see him. I sense a bond of deep friendship that has developed between us through the years. This relationship has even matured over the past several months while we have not seen one another. We exchange pleasantries. He seems in a particularly relaxed mood today.

I have brought a digital wristwatch for him as a gift. I have also brought copies of some of my travel logs and my notes on conversations with him. He accepts them politely and asks if I have the instructions on how to use the watch, which I unfortunately misplaced and could not find. Then he asks about the price of the watch. I should have known . . . asking the price is a cultural difference between India and the U.S.

He lies down flat on his back and gazes at the stars above. The stars are shining brilliantly in a clear sky. There is a brief silence, and then he asks, “Mr. Mathur, tell me, do you believe in God?”

A long silence follows on my part. Perhaps he expects a quick and affirmative answer, for he repeats the question with a measure of impatience.

“This is a profound question you have asked,” I say. “Let me frame my answer in my own mind, so that it is correct and describes my belief rather than a quick yes or no answer, which really will not tell you much.”

My mind starts to race at what seems like a million miles an hour. No one that I can recall has ever asked me this question in such a straightforward manner and with such intensity. A part of me wants to cry out and in an unequivocal, loud voice shout, “YES!” But there is another part of me that says that a “yes” would mean the negation of all that I have stood for since my teenage days.

As a child, there was no doubt in my mind about the existence of God. God existed just as the sun, moon, air, or trees. God existed just like the distant land of America. God existed because everyone around me believed in that existence. There was no reason for doubt. God was a source of joy for me . . . beautiful festivals, all the gifts we received, and an expression of deepest reverence in me.

Then, between the ages of 10 and 13, I witnessed the horrible religious strife in India. As a child, I lived through the bloody massacre in which almost a million people were killed and more than 15 million Hindus and Muslims were displaced—all in the name of religion. Each group thought that its religion was superior. Each thought that they were the chosen ones and that God had spoken only to them, that all others were deluded, misguided, or lost. The more orthodox persons were in their religious beliefs, the more rigid their views and the less open to experiences outside their narrow realm.

That one could kill in the name of God created revulsion in my mind to all so-called “religions.” Trying to get to the crux of things, I realized that perhaps there was a fallacy with the concept of God itself. That was where all these problems started. To no two people did the word “God” mean the same thing.

So, I erased the word “God” from my vocabulary. One could be kind, gentle, and compassionate without having the source of all this in the word “God.” To me the word “God” had become the source of demagoguery, superstition, reactionary philosophy, and an age of darkness for humankind.

I had started to follow western materialism. I could identify with the statement, “Religion is the opium of the masses.” I read western philosophy while earning my bachelor’s and master’s degrees in political science. I was convinced that if humankind were to be saved, the only solution was the eradication of all religion and religious institutions. Organized religion was the curse of humankind, and I was ready to pay any cost for its eradication.

India was the worst. Everyone was religious—even my educated parents. I had vigorous arguments with my father, who could not comprehend the source of my doubts. Even the communists in India were religious. They were among the most orthodox; only the name of their God was different. Nothing was outside the realm of religion in my country.  

All art was nothing but homage to God; architecture was found only in temples and statues; music was only the chanting of hymns; all literature was a repetition of the epics. All stories were religious. Politics, morals, customs, traditions, and even love-making were the domain of religion. It confounded me that the people of India could not see that the source of all their backwardness lay in religion. And the source was in the word “God.”

To me, humans were insensitive and cruel to humans. They pretended to be compassionate to animals as compensation, but really they were not. They could not afford to be, because they were mired in the struggle for their own survival. Could they not see that compassion was a property of those who could afford it? To me, the Indians had missed the point; they had to learn to chase machinery, not God.

I wanted to learn the art of enslaving machinery from the very best. That is what brought me to the United States. I was overjoyed, for here were people who had enslaved the machine, pioneers of a new and vivid path the rest of the world could follow. Here was the salvation I was seeking. I became an avid student.

The more I studied, the more I realized that enslaving the machine comes at a heavy price. In the process, humans tend to become machines and lose their humanity. They need to tether themselves to something stronger in order not to be swept away. They have to rise above the five senses to experience humanity and find a meaning in the enslavement of machinery. This experience beyond the five senses is what some called God. Thus, the word God took on a new meaning for me. I started to focus more and more on the realm beyond the five senses.

And here I was with Dr. Sinha because of that.

But the word God has a different connotation for most people than it has for me. That was the reason for my hesitation in saying “yes” or “no” to Dr. Sinha’s question.

After what seems like a long wait, Dr. Sinha inquires again. “It is a simple question: Do you, or do you not, believe in God?”

“The question is indeed simple, but my answer is complex. I do not know how to articulate my feelings. That is the problem,” I say, telling him about the silence with which Gautam Buddha had handled the same question.

“But you are not Buddha, and you do not have his wisdom,” Dr. Sinha says impatiently. “Buddha could convey messages of deep significance through his silence; you have not reached that point. Your silence is caused by your confusion. I insist that you verbalize your statement, rather than play Buddha with me.”

I am at a loss for words, and silence follows again.

Impatience is getting the better of Dr. Sinha. “Mr. Mathur, you will not be able to leave this place until you have wrestled with this question and can answer me. This is the crux of our relationship. Do you realize that the sole reason you come to me is so that I can solidify your faith in God?”

“How can you solidify my faith in God when I cannot even comprehend and define what God is? And, if I can comprehend and define God, then how can it be God?” I inquire.

“God is, indeed, incomprehensible and indefinable. We, as human beings, have very limited capabilities to experience and understand. We have very limited knowledge. Of what we think we know best, we really know very little. That is the nature of things. The irony is that in order to experience something, first you must believe in it.”  

Dr. Sinha’s mood is now calm, and he continues, “Mr. Mathur, before you went to America you had not seen the country, and you did not know as much about the country as you do now. You could not know about it if you did not travel there, and you could not travel there if you did not have faith that the country existed. Your faith was based on the fact that others had traveled before you.

“You have not totally experienced all aspects of America, as no one has ever experienced the totality of God. But yet America is a reality to you. We all experience God all the time, even though we know that we cannot experience God in totality.  

“Without faith there can be no experience. Faith is the life-force. At least from one perspective, faith is God and God is faith. But playing word games will not lead you anywhere. In order to make use of that life-force, you have to make it personal and concrete. Your concept of God will constantly change with your increasing experience but, first, you must have faith in your capability to have that experience. I have given you a few demonstrations that all is possible within God. These demonstrations are merely to widen your horizons.

“When you have faith, Mr. Mathur, there will be no dichotomy; and when there is no dichotomy, then you will have experiences of which you will have no comprehension. Then your silence will have a different meaning, and the question I asked you will not even be asked.”