A journey from ritual to heartfelt devotion, where bhakti becomes an everyday connection
By Asha Bahroos
Growing up in north America, Hinduism was often in the background. I knew prayers, stories and rituals, but it felt rigid to me, as if there were right and wrong ways to practice. It was not until I visited India last spring that I began to understand what Hinduism could truly feel like: natural, intuitive and alive. In one quiet moment, I saw bhakti not as an obligation but as a simple act of love. It redefined what faith means to me.
It was the morning of Holi in Indore, Madhya Pradesh. As I stepped into a mandir, I saw two elderly women in meditation before a black stone form of Shiva. When finished, they smiled softly, opened small pouches of gulal (colored powder), and gently pressed it onto the stone surface. Outside, the city pulsed with music and color. I had celebrated Holi back home with bonfires, parties and community festivals, but this felt entirely different. There was no sound except the faint rustle of cloth and the soft ring of a brass bell. The women were not performing a ritual. They were inviting Shiva to celebrate with them, not as a distant God but as someone deeply familiar. It felt as if they were saying, come play with us, Shiva. You are one of us. You are family! That simple gesture turned celebration into prayer, and prayer into play.
It brought me to tears. No priest instructed them, no rule required it. It came from a place of love that felt older than tradition. It was not about what is permitted or expected. It was about sacred connection. That moment helped me realize something that has continued to shape how I see my faith. In India, Hinduism does not feel like a religion of steps to follow, but like a spiritual reality you are born into.
I later explained this to my grandparents, who had moved to Canada many years ago. My Dadi (grandmother) told me something surprising: she did not miss practicing in India. When they first arrived, there were no temples and no community structures. But her faith did not weaken; it deepened. She said the early temples in Toronto were not about formality but about comfort and hope. My Dada (grandfather) added that Hinduism itself never changed. Some chant. Some meditate. Some serve others. All of it is seva, and all of it is valid. Even the smallest act can be an offering.
I asked whether Hinduism in the West feels more rigid. My grandparents said it simply adapts. What matters is sincerity of heart. The environment may change, but the essence remains. Hinduism flows with its people. It finds the sacred in the natural world. We revere cows for their nourishment and maternal presence. We bow to trees and rivers because they give life. The divine is never far away. It is here, in the earth, in the sky, in the food we eat, and in the people we love.
In many ways, what I witnessed in Indore was not so different from what my grandparents had practiced all along; only the surroundings had changed—the temples, the traditions, the clothing. But the feeling was the same. My grandfather’s quiet generosity, my grandmother’s whispered prayers, and the women’s gentle offering were all expressions of the same truth. Hinduism is not about rigid repetition. It is about presence and intention. Faith does not live in temples or rituals. It lives in us. That morning in Indore did not teach me something new. It reminded me of what I had always known: you offer what you can, from where you are, to the divine that speaks to you. In that act of devotion, I witnessed a truth that has stayed with me ever since. Hinduism asks only for presence, love and the willingness to see beauty in all things. The divine can meet us anywhere.
Asha Bahroos, 21, is from Los Angeles, California and is pursuing a degree in pharmacy. She enjoys writing about Hindu philosophy and her experiences