“People who see India as the land of freedom and light are unique.” Jeremy had said. “What the hell does that mean?” I thought. I wasn’t sure, but I was damn ready to find out. If I’m being honest, I sought something deeper. I was tired of paying homage to the western god of productivity. If I was going to return home and be productive for the next 30 years, I needed to see what everyone else was doing first.
I had arrived in India that morning, already feeling like a nervous westerner. The hawkers, the touts, the constant attention—everyone seemed to just want my money, and I kept my guard up. After several hours lost in the jumbled streets, I found my hostel. Then, I navigated the overwhelming chaos of Parantha Wali Gali, one of Delhi’s famous food alleys, and grabbed lunch. Still wary but curious, I emerged from the crowded alley and walked east toward the Jama Masjid—one of India’s largest mosques.
The shops shifted from jewelry sales to fabrics, from wedding gowns to toys. Entering the main street, I passed a sadhu—a holy man wearing only a white dhoti—as he stepped out from a gated temple. He turned, bent his hands together toward me, and bowed. I heard chanting from beyond the gate but continued walking. In Delhi, about four out of every five residents practice Hinduism, with most of the remainder being Muslims, along with smaller Sikh, Jain, and Christian communities.[1] I passed another Hindu temple and a Sikh gurdwara before seeing the mosque across the street. I was starting to see what Jeremy meant by “The Land of Light and Freedom.”
The massive red sandstone wall of the mosque rose before me across the street and its twin minarets poked the sky—the Jama Masjid.
After paying my entrance fee and removing my shoes, I walked forward through the archway into a tiled open square. The courtyard stretched before me and I heard laughter at two boys, maybe ten years old, chased each other across the square. It felt like a picnic day at a religious facility. The center was dotted with families sprawled out on blankets covering the red and white tiled floor. Couples walked slowly along the shaded path around the perimeter. Women gossiped near the dry fountain in the center and along the perimeter steps. All wore long flowing gowns, mostly white or grey. The far side was enclosed—what I presumed was the main prayer hall.
I found it curious that this felt less like a place of worship and more like a safe community space, like a community park. The red sandstone walls and white marble domes towering above seemed to shelter rather than intimidate. Yes, there were men and women in the main enclosure on the west side, on their knees in supplication, bowing up and down. But otherwise, between their prayers, they picnicked with their families. Worship here felt more like celebrated togetherness.
I tiptoed across the square to the main prayer hall, my bare feet burning on the hot tile. Along the way, a few children approached me laughing and tried their hand at English. We didn’t get far, but they gestured enthusiastically, miming that they wanted a selfie. This happened several times. I would see the adults laughing or smiling from a distance at the spectacle. As an outsider, I had expected a solemn atmosphere and questioning glances, but what I was getting instead was welcome and joy. I left feeling a bit lighter, almost gleeful.
Maybe this was what Jeremy meant by the land of freedom and light—not some mystical enlightenment, but strangers inviting you into their joy without suspicion, worship woven seamlessly into daily life, the sacred and ordinary existing side by side without contradiction. I was beginning to understand, but I still had more to see. I’d only glimpsed one corner of Delhi’s spiritual landscape. If the mosque felt like a family gathering, what would the largest Hindu temple in the world feel like? I needed to find out.
But for now, I turned and walked toward my hostel.
<3 Colin