Mamma’s voice broke through the stillness of the early morning, soft but insistent. I still remember the day she taught me Saraswati Namastubhyam, a shloka that’s a type of prayer to Saraswati, the Hindu Goddess of knowledge and learning. I felt my mother’s weight next to me as she sat on my bed, and she said, “Diya, mole, repeat after me.”

“What time is it?” I’d asked in confusion. It was the first day Mamma was going to work early, which she’s done every morning since I was three years old. Her mornings always began at 5 AM, long before the world outside even woke up.

I repeated the prayer slowly, stumbling over the unfamiliar Sanskrit words, which felt like trying to pronounce a tricky tongue twister while still learning how to say “apple” in English. “No, Diya,” she said patiently, “you have to say it like this.” She smiled, hopeful, and even as a toddler, I could tell this meant a lot to her. Her face was lit up by the sun beginning to rise, the light peaking through the shades, shining on her curly hair—yet another thing we have in common. I tried to say the words again, but I had a hard time making the hard ‘r’ sounds, which didn’t exist in English. It was especially difficult trying to say these words without knowing their meaning. Mamma’s voice was calm but firm, and we went through the lines again and again until I got it just right. When I finally did, she smiled, kissed my forehead, and cracked her knuckles, which in Indian culture is symbolic of removing bad omens from one’s day. “Good,” she said. “Now Saraswati Devi will bless you with wisdom.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of this ritual. It was simply something Mamma did—in all her superstition, it was a practice she believed in and brought her comfort. And of course, I always went along with it, because it was our ritual. But as the years passed and the mornings piled up, it became more than that. No matter how busy she got, how early she had to leave, or how late for the train she was, this was the one thing she always made time for. 

Growing up in a household that blended two religions—Hinduism from Appa’s side and both Roman Catholicism and Hinduism from Mamma’s—was both rich and confusing. I would recite Saraswati Namastubhyam in the mornings and say my Hail Mary’s at night. On Sundays, we occasionally went to church; and every third Sunday afternoon of the month, we visited the temple in Ashland. Our pooja room was a microcosm of this intersection: brass idols of Hindu gods, Hanuman, Krishna, Saraswati Devi, Ganesha, and more stood beside a wooden crucifix and a photo of the virgin Mary, a string of rudraksha beads hung next to a rosary.

I carry these symbols with me in my everyday life. The rosary ring on my finger, the bindi on my forehead, the thread blessed at the temple tied around my wrist, the Mother Mary charm hanging from it. They are reminders of who I am, though I do not always know how to reconcile them. In school, I sang hymns and learned Bible verses. At home, I lit incense and rang the brass bell to pay my respects to the gods. As a child, I didn’t question it much. In retrospect, it was because I didn’t quite grasp the importance of the words I recited, or really, the idea of religion as a whole. 

As I grew older, I started to wonder what it all meant. Did I truly believe in Saraswati’s blessings, or was I just repeating the words out of habit? Did the Hail Mary’s I recited at church hold the same weight as the prayers I fumbled at the temple? These questions didn’t have easy answers, and for a long time, I felt adrift, unsure of where I stood.

Now, each time I sit down at my desk and recite a chant to Lord Ganesha before opening my books, I glance at the small statue of the elephant-headed god beside my lamp. It’s a request for guidance and also a plea to understand the content of my textbooks. Each time I step into my car, I whisper a prayer to keep me safe, looking first at the tiny Krishna perched on my dashboard and then at the angels and rosary my mom hung from the rearview mirror. Each time, I feel a fleeting sense of protection, of hope that the divine is watching over me.

But I also find myself questioning: Does the statue on my desk truly hold power? Does Krishna’s presence in my car make me safer? Do these rituals mean anything beyond the comfort they bring? And how do these symbols—Hindu gods, Catholic saints, and Christian prayers—coexist so seamlessly in my life when they come from such different worlds?

It wasn’t until pretty recently that I began to find clarity in all this—how it’s less about strict adherence to rituals and more about the connections and meanings we derive from them. That’s when I started to see my upbringing not as the cacophony of multiple religions but as a blessing. I realized that the rituals and prayers, whether Hindu or Catholic, were less about the words themselves and more about the love and intention behind them.

Every morning when Mamma comes to say bye, I see these interactions in a new light. They aren’t just about Saraswati or the prayer. They’re about her love for me, her hope that I’d grow up to be wise and kind, just like Saraswati Devi—her way of passing down a part of herself, her wisdom, and her care. I remember this every time I draw my bindi right between my eyebrows, just like she taught me.