Protocols, Beliefs, and Letting Go

Growing up in Bangalore, I often found myself bewildered, not by people, but by the quiet protocols that governed life in our rather orthodox yet progressive, middle-class family.

Some were simple, yet strangely absolute. If a cat crossed the road from right to left, I had to pause and take a detour, as though the cat had just received a confidential alert about my immediate future and was trying to save me. Cutting nails was never an any-day affair; it required consultation with elders, almost like seeking clearance for a minor surgical procedure. The same applied to haircuts. Even stepping out for something important couldn’t be done on impulse, it had to be cleared against Rahu Kaalam, Yamagandam, and a few other invisible authorities that seemed to function like an unseen municipal office with extraordinary powers.

We wouldn’t even open an envelope during “restricted” times, as though the contents might take offence if read at the wrong hour. A telegram, however, was an exception, perhaps urgency outranked superstition, even in those days.

By nature, I questioned things. I wanted reasons. More often than not, the answers were vague, if not entirely circular: “that’s how it is done.” A statement that had the remarkable ability to end both the conversation and my curiosity in a single stroke.

My father worked in the Railways, which meant we had the privilege of travelling on passes. One summer, while I was still in school, he packed me off to Ambala, where my paternal aunt lived.

It was a journey of over two days, and I travelled alone. Sending someone along would have meant additional expense and, perhaps, inconvenience to the hosts. In those days, a “line boy” was expected to manage. Confidence, like luggage, was assumed to be carried along.

Before I left, the household assembled as though I were being dispatched on a diplomatic mission with long-term implications for family reputation. I was reminded, more than once, to behave well and earn a good name at my aunt’s place, as though I were representing not just myself but an entire lineage.

Another ritual, as important as any, was to prostrate before every elder before leaving for an outstation trip. In a large joint family, this exercise alone could rival a full yoga routine, forward bends, stretches, balance, and endurance, all in one session. My grandmother, the senior-most, would then apply vibhuti on my forehead, a quiet, final blessing to ward off anything evil before I stepped out. At that point, I felt reasonably well-protected against both known and unknown threats.

The journey went smoothly, changing trains at Chennai and then Delhi, and I was received at Ambala Cantonment station by my cousins, looking both relieved and mildly curious to see if I had survived the expedition.

Those three weeks were uncomplicated and joyful. My younger cousin, close to my age, was my constant companion in play. The elder one, several years ahead, was the studious, brilliant type, occasionally teasing his younger brother when his father wasn’t around, perhaps restoring some balance to the affection the youngest enjoyed.

At the end of my stay, I was to leave for Solan in Himachal Pradesh, where my father’s youngest brother lived.  Determined to leave a good impression, I followed what I believed was proper protocol. I told my aunt, quite earnestly, that I would prostrate before her, just as I did back home, and that she should apply vibhuti on my forehead.

Her reaction caught me completely off guard. She looked almost alarmed and asked why I was still living in the “stone age.” Yet, she went along with my request, perhaps not to discourage what she assumed was a young mind steeped in orthodoxy, when in truth, that young mind was merely putting on a performance, eager to impress, with no real belief in any of those protocols.

In that instant, everything I thought would impress her collapsed. I was shaken, confused, and quietly worried for a long time afterwards. Had I embarrassed my upbringing? Would she mention this back home? Would a review committee be set up?

It was perhaps my first real encounter with how differently traditions could be perceived, even within the same family.

Years later, a neighbour, who remains a close friend to this day, would put many of my childhood confusions into perspective.

He was brilliant, far ahead of me academically, a postgraduate in science, thoughtful, and otherwise remarkably rational. He came from a rural background, had studied in Kannada medium, and lived in a modest shared room, much like the rest of us navigating middle-class life with precision budgeting and shared resources.

He performed his daily puja with great discipline. What made it curious was that his two roommates had to leave the room during that time, temporarily evicted in the interest of divine communication. If a guest arrived, they would often be made to wait outside while he completed his ritual, as though appointments with the divine could not be interrupted or rescheduled. He believed that any disturbance could lead to a bad omen.

Then there was his New Year’s Eve practice.  Every year, he would carefully arrange the puja items, bananas, betel leaves, camphor, agarbatti, with the precision of someone preparing for a high-stakes experiment. By 11 p.m., even in the December chill, he would be sweating, not from the weather, but from the strain of what lay ahead.

He would set an alarm for 1 a.m., not to wake up, but to mark the end of the ritual. From midnight to 1 a.m., he had to remain completely focused and undisturbed in his Puja.

While the rest of us were busy watching New Year programmes, exchanging greetings, or debating which channel had the better countdown, he was engaged in what looked, from the outside, like intense devotion.

It took me years to understand that it was something else.

After a couple of decades, and with the comfort of familiarity, he finally opened up.

He believed that his state of mind between 12:00 midnight and 1:00 a.m. would determine the entire year ahead. Every five minutes past midnight represented a month. If he lost focus, say between 12:20 and 12:25, he would fear something going wrong in May. And once that thought took hold, he would carry that dread through the entire month, effectively pre-booking anxiety well in advance.

To him, the ritual was an act of devotion; to me, it felt more like anxiety.

What struck me even more was this: his father was a thoroughly rational man, untouched by such beliefs. Yet here was my friend, brilliant, successful, well settled, grounded in every other aspect, caught in something he could neither justify nor easily abandon.

People who knew about this practice had begun to mock him. He was aware of it.  He wanted to change. But he felt helpless, like someone who knew the exit was nearby but couldn’t quite bring himself to take it.

Then came a turning point.  Sometime in the early years of this century, he was deputed to Dharwad on December 29th. His work was scheduled for the 30th and 31st, but he initially planned to depart on the 30th night, just in time for his ritual.  But the situation offered him a choice: stay one more day, complete the assignment, and earn an additional halting allowance of ₹6,000.  It was a tempting sum.

More than that, it offered him something rarer, a legitimate, socially acceptable excuse to himself, to not perform the ritual. Sometimes, liberation arrives disguised as office work.

He weighed it through his overnight journey from Bangalore to Dharwad, caught between tradition and relief.  He chose to stay.  And take the 31st night bus back.

The return journey began around 9:45 p.m. on December 31st. It was a full moon night.

As the bus moved through quiet stretches of highway, he sat by the window, watching the moon glide alongside, steady, indifferent, almost reassuring. The winter breeze flowed in through the open window, gentle and uninsistent, as if carrying something away from him.

As midnight approached and passed, he felt what he later described as a strange, overwhelming mix, like a mother in labour, enduring pain yet anticipating the arrival of something new.

But this time, there was no ritual.  No alarm.  No counting of minutes into months.  No mental attendance register being marked for the year ahead.  Just the moon, the road, and a slow unburdening.

Somewhere between Dharwad and Bangalore, under that pale glow and cool night air, he loosened his grip, not entirely, but enough.

My own childhood struggles with rituals seemed small in comparison.  Here was someone who had wrestled with belief and fear at a far deeper level, and had found, if not complete freedom, at least a way to step back from its hold.

Even today, he visits a particular temple on a specific day each month.  But that night, on that quiet bus under a full moon, he had already come a very long way.

It also left me with a quieter understanding of the world I had grown up in.  Not all traditions are burdens. Many carry warmth, belonging, and continuity.  But some, almost imperceptibly, shift from being anchors to becoming weights. The difficulty lies in knowing the difference.

As a child, my instinct to question came from confusion, sometimes even mild embarrassment. Over time, I realised that questioning is rarely comfortable. It unsettles what we have accepted without thought. Yet without that discomfort, there is little room for clarity.

What I witnessed in my friend was something deeper. His ritual was not about faith, it was about fear. A need to control what cannot be controlled.  And that, perhaps, is where belief quietly crosses into anxiety.

What stayed with me even more was this: intelligence offers no immunity. One can be thoughtful, accomplished, and still be held back by something one cannot fully explain.

Which is why change rarely arrives through argument.  It comes through moments, unexpected, unplanned, that allow us to step away, even briefly, from what holds us.

He did not abandon everything.  Nor did he need to.

And I know of highly literate and accomplished families in today’s times opting for C-sections carefully timed to a particular day and hour, and suddenly, everything I experienced pales into insignificance.

Sometimes, loosening the grip is enough.

And perhaps that is what being rational really means, not rejecting belief altogether, but having the freedom to decide which ones we carry… and which ones we can finally let go.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.