For the 330 million Hindu gods said to be worshiped in India, and the many others besides, you’d think my family might have gone in for at least one.
All my friends had a dedicated sacred space in their homes: a puja room or altar where they could pray and lay out flowers for their favorite deities. My best friend even had photographs of her God on the wall. His name was Aga Khan. I remember asking my mother, “How come Maj’s God wears a suit and is alive?” The fact that God didn’t need to be dead blew my mind. God could be in the pots and pans, in a rock, the sky, the earth, even the polo field. Still, somehow, my family didn’t have one.
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