Diwali is coming up this weekend, and this year, for some reasons related to family, it’s going to be a quiet one in our household. No big celebrations, no over-the-top lights, no matching outfits. As much as I used to enjoy all of that, honestly, it feels nice this year. Life can be overwhelming sometimes, so it is nice to embrace the quiet light.

I grew up with religion woven deeply into my life. Daily prayers were routine. My hair was sacred. Gurdwara visits were constant. There was such a strong sense of community of people who shared the same rhythms, the same beliefs, the same comfort in ritual. I kept my hair for my grandparents, and I still do. But lately, I’ve been asking myself: what is it really for?

I will say that I have struggled with religion and with God. Through the hardest moments in life, I’ve found myself asking, where is God? That question has followed me quietly for years. I even once left a note to Babaji in the Guru Granth Sahib Ji in my house, and for over a year, no one ever found it. Was God even listening? I think anyone who’s wrestled with faith knows this ache, that feeling of devotion meeting disappointment. Even when I say I kept my hair, it wasn’t really for God. I haven’t cut it because of my grandparents. In truth, it was always more for them than for the divine. I guess that says something about where my faith really lives.

Growing up, I loved watching Bollywood religious festival scenes. Think K3G, Karva Chauth night with the lights, the laughter, the grandeur. And when I got married, I carried that joy with me. I loved decorating idols, preparing the puja thalis, lighting diyas that flickered with meaning. Not to show off, but because it reminded me of who I was. Religion, for me, was never performative, it was deeply personal. I enjoyed all the fun mixing in the traditions with the rituals.

But not everyone saw it that way. I remember someone once saying that I put my faith “out in the open” just to be flashy as if it was for attention. That comment stung, because my intention was never to show off. It came from love, from a place of comfort and tradition. Everyone practices differently and that should be okay. It wasn’t inconsistency or a need to display spirituality; it was simply growth, with me learning that connection can look different every day.

Some people pray twice a day, some every single night. I remember my cousin once asking her mom to say her prayers for her while she was out at her bachelorette because she wasn’t sure if she could do it herself that night after drinking. I really admired that. It sounds funny now, but honestly, it’s beautiful in its own way, that awareness, that thoughtfulness. None of this makes anyone more or less religious. We’re all just doing our best, finding our own version of connection. I used to, before college, pray twice a day. Once I went to college, it was more sporadic. Through medical school and residency, I started returning to my roots. Faith evolves with time and my journey has changed.

As time has passed, our way of practicing has evolved too. When I first got married, we put our puja out in the open for everyone to see, it was part of our home, so why keep it enclosed? Then it became its own room, like my parents’ Babaji room, as a sign of respect. Now, in our house, it’s just a small nook in our bedroom. And that feels right for right now. But all of those places in the past were fine too. As our life needs changed and space needed readjusting, we pivoted. And that is okay. Now as a family, we still put our hands together every so often and say a few mantras with the kids. It’s simple, grounding, and ours.

Our home blends both Sikhism and Hinduism and not in a forced way, but in a natural, loving way. Sometimes we stand at the puja together with our hands together, sometimes we recite one mantra from each faith in the car on the go. Sometimes it doesn’t happen, as mornings can be chaotic. And that is okay. We need to remind ourselves that following rituals to the T isn’t what is important, it is the thought that counts, the idea of being at peace in your soul and of being a good, kind human to others.

From Sikhism, we say the Mool Mantar —
Ik Onkar, Satnam, Karta Purakh, Nirbhau, Nirvair, Akaal Moorat, Ajooni, Saibhang, Gur Prasad.
It reminds us that there is only one Creator, who is fearless, timeless, and without hate, a guiding force beyond form.

Then we say the Mahamrityunjaya Mantra from Hinduism —
Om Tryambakam Yajamahe Sugandhim Pushtivardhanam, Urvarukamiva Bandhanan Mrityor Mukshiya Maamritat.
A prayer to Lord Shiva for health, protection, and liberation from fear.

The boys try their best to pronounce these mantras, and mess up most of the time. It is the idea of them saying the same mantras we both did growing up with our grandparents that really gives a sense of life coming in full circle. Both together feel like an ode to culture, and to the closeness we still feel to our grandparents and great-grandparents who raised us with faith at the center of life. We don’t say them for perfection or because we have to, just because they remind us of where we came from

Even our Alexa “good morning” routine is a mix of both. It plays hymns from Sikhism and Hinduism, with Japji Sahib, followed by Gayatri Mantra and Ya Devi Sarva Bhuteshu. We don’t always listen to them, mostly on the moments when amidst all the chaos of the kids running and screaming, I look outside and see a glimmer of sunlight, I crave for peace. I don’t play these for the meaning as much as for the peace it brings and the calm it sets for the day ahead. It reminds me of the first time I heard these hymns during troubling times and just brings my soul to ease.

In Japji Sahib, there’s a verse that has stayed with me since childhood. My Mataji (great-grandmother) used to sit with me and go through each line, explaining what it meant:

Bharee-ai hath pair tan dayh, paanee Dhotai utras khayh.
Moot paleetee kaparh ho-ay, day saaboon la-ee-ai oh Dho-ay.
Bharee-ai mat paapaa kai sang, oh Dhopai naavai kai rang.

She explained that when our hands and body get dirty, water washes them clean. When our clothes are soiled, we use soap to remove the stains. But when our mind becomes clouded by negativity or sin, only the remembering the divine, Naam, can purify our mind. The lines go on to say that virtue and vice aren’t in words, but in actions, and that what we plant, we eventually harvest.

Even as a child, I was in awe of how something so simple could hold such depth. I used to be so proud of myself for even understanding the words “dho-ay”, connecting it to the idea of washing and rinsing. Those lines taught me that spirituality isn’t about how things look on the outside, but how we live and act each day. That’s how it should be.

I even did my high school IB thesis on the differences between Sikh and Hindu weddings, analyzing the rituals, the philosophies, the cultural roots. Who knew that just eight years later, I’d find myself performing both ceremonies at my own wedding? Life has a funny way of bringing things full circle.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it really means to be religious, spiritual, agnostic, or atheist. To me, being religious is about structure, following rituals, prayers, and traditions to stay connected to something greater. Being spiritual is more fluid, it is about feeling the energy, the peace, the awareness that something beyond us exists, without formal rituals. Being agnostic means being open, not certain that there is or isn’t something more, but just curious enough to keep questioning. And being atheist is about believing there isn’t a higher power, that meaning and morality come entirely from within and from how we live our lives. All of these can be true to each individual and their understanding of it.

I think I fall somewhere between spiritual and agnostic now. I believe in something, a force, a goodness, an energy, but I don’t need to name it anymore. I find comfort in the quiet, in the moments where I feel connected, without rules or definitions.

This last week, I held fasts for Karva Chauth and for Ahoi Ashtami. A fast for your spouse and for your child. Notice how I said spouse and child, when historically, these were done for your husband and son. I think we should redefine these traditions in a way that feels right for you. The patriarchal traditions in my mind should be reevaluated by each person and done for the right reasons to YOU. I used to be so upset seeing men sitting on one side, women on another, the Bhaijee’s only males, and being told when I was on my period, I was not allowed to go behind Guru Granth Sahib Ji. It can be so frustrating to feel less wanted by God when your body is doing what it only is naturally supposed to.

Sure, as someone who technically grew up Sikh, I don’t need to hold these fasting traditions which are most commonly Hindu. Growing up, my grandma and her sisters used to hold a nirjala fast (without water even) for Karva Chauth, for the community and fun out of a tradition they enjoyed. So I continue it as well, again not because I think I need to fast for my spouse or for my children, but because I find a peace in feeling closer to my elders. Even for Rakhri (or Raksha Bandhan), I have my boys tie on each other, even though traditionally it was the sister who tied a string on her brother to protect him while he left the house to go work. A beautiful sentiment, but it should be for all siblings to tie on each other, transcending gender norms. A tradition I want the kids to continue if they so choose, as long as they love, protect, and support each other. For me, these rituals aren’t about proving faith, they’re about feeling connected. I may not know what form the divine takes, or if it even exists, but I know the calm I feel when I do them is real. I hold on to some, you might hold on to others and that’s more than okay.

I recently read Hijab Butch Blues (amazing book, please read!!), and one part really stayed with me, how the author writes about Maryam, and how she doesn’t like men. It was such an eye-opening passage, not because of that detail alone, but because of what it revealed about perspective. The way the author read it, that is how she interpreted it. Later in the book, the author talks about how God is genderless, how the pronouns used are always “they”. That thought shook something in me, the idea that divinity doesn’t belong to one image, one gender, or one culture. Everyone’s interpretation is their own truth, and that’s the beauty of it. How beautiful! I would love to start a discussion with anyone interested. I just wish everyone’s interpretation of religion would be as beautiful and peaceful, instead of holding onto negative energy.

So yes, Diwali will be quiet this year. But maybe that’s exactly what we need, a softer kind of light. One that glows in our homes and hearts, reminding us that faith, even if flashy or if quiet, it just needs to be yours.