Have you ever seen little children playing ghar ghar?
One child becomes the mother.
One becomes the father.
Someone becomes the guest.
And almost always… someone does the puja.
A tiny plate is brought.
Some leaves or flowers are picked from the garden.
An imaginary bhog is offered to God.
A little bell is rung.
And then comes the funniest part — the “mantras.”
Complete gibberish.
Half words.
Made-up sounds.
Random things said with full seriousness.
And yet… somehow that innocent little puja feels so pure.
Maybe even closer to God than many elaborate rituals adults perform today.
Because children are not trying to impress anyone.
They are not worried about doing things perfectly.
They are not thinking about which mantra is correct.
They are not concerned about who is watching.
They simply believe that God is there.
And that innocence itself becomes devotion.
Think about it carefully.
Most children do not learn puja from scriptures.
They learn it by watching.
Watching their mother light the diya in the evening.
Watching flowers being offered before exams.
Watching grandparents fold their hands before leaving the house.
That is why even during pretend play, puja naturally enters the game.
Not because someone forced it.
But because it felt like a normal part of life.
Simple. Familiar. Loving.
No child ever says:
“I don’t know enough to pray.”
“What if my pronunciation is wrong?”
“Am I qualified to do this puja?”
Only adults say that.
Slowly, devotion started becoming performance.
Today many pujas feel less about connection and more about presentation.
How grand is the decoration?
How expensive is the jewellery?
How many guests are coming?
How big is the arrangement?
Which caterer? Which outfits? Which photographer?
Sometimes spirituality starts looking more like an event production.
And while celebration is beautiful, somewhere the simplicity quietly disappears.
The same child who once confidently offered imaginary flowers to God grows up believing:
puja is complicated,
rituals are difficult,
and devotion belongs only to people who “know everything.”
That is the saddest shift.
A small child offering pretend food with complete faith…
and an adult offering silver plates while mentally stressed — which one carries more presence?
Maybe that is why people often feel more emotional watching simple acts of devotion.
An old grandmother whispering prayers.
A child folding hands sincerely.
A tiny diya lit in silence.
Because truth can be felt.
And devotion without ego always feels lighter.
A Ganpati puja does not need to become a competition.
It can still remain simple.
One idol.
A few flowers.
Homemade prasad.
Family sitting together.
A genuine prayer.
That is enough.
Sometimes we forget that rituals were created to bring peace into homes — not pressure.
Not childishness. But childlike sincerity.
The kind where you sit before God without overthinking. Without fear. Without performance.
Just presence.
Because perhaps the purest form of puja was always that little child ringing a bell, saying nonsense words with complete faith… believing God was listening anyway.
And maybe… God was.
Do you know divinity has a smell?
Sometimes it smells like incense after evening aarti.
Sometimes like shiuli flowers on cold Durga Puja mornings.
There are some smells that don’t just reach the nose — they reach memory. Maybe that’s why temples stay with us long after we return home — because divinity has a fragrance.
It lingers in our clothes, our homes, and somewhere deep inside memory.
The sharp warmth of camphor burning in front of a deity.
Dhuno smoke slowly fills the room while shankh dhwani echoes from nearby homes.
These smells do something strange to us. They quiet the mind for a moment. They make ordinary spaces feel softer, calmer… almost protected.
And perhaps that is why spirituality was never designed to be experienced only through the mind.
It was always meant to be felt through the senses.
For many of us who grew up in middle-class Indian homes, spirituality was not always taught through scriptures.
It came through the atmosphere.
You knew evening had arrived not by checking the clock, but when someone in the neighbourhood blew the conch shell during Shandhya aarti. Soon after, the faint smell of agarbatti would drift through balconies and staircases.
In Bengali homes, especially, Durga Puja has its own scent memory.
Shiuli flowers are collected in small bowls before sunrise. Dhuno during dhaak beats.
New clothes carrying the mixed smell of starch, perfume, and pandal smoke.
Even today, one unexpected whiff of shiuli can instantly transport someone back twenty years — to waking up early during pujo vacations, to mothers arranging flowers for pushpanjali, to fathers reading newspapers while Mahalaya played softly in the background.
That is the power of sensory memory.
Sometimes devotion enters the heart long before understanding enters the mind.
Hindu rituals were never built as silent, intellectual exercises.
Every element engages the body gently:
Why?
Because human beings remember feelings more deeply than instructions.
A sacred smell creates an atmosphere. The atmosphere creates emotion. Emotion creates connection.
That is why entering a temple often feels different before a single prayer is spoken.
The smell itself prepares the mind.
And sometimes, when you return home from a temple, your clothes continue carrying that fragrance for hours. Somehow, you don’t want to wash it away immediately. It feels as if you brought back a small piece of divinity with you.
Not because the smell is magical. But because the experience attached to it was.
A sacred space does not require a large mandir or expensive decor.
Many Indian homes have created deeply spiritual environments with very little:
That was enough.
When certain fragrances become part of prayer over the years, the mind begins associating them with peace and grounding.
This is why even after stressful days, lighting incense at home changes the energy almost instantly. Not because problems disappear — but because the nervous system recognises familiarity, safety, and pause.
Rituals slow us down through the senses.
Long after we forget exact mantras, we still remember the smell of temples.
Long after childhood passes, we still remember the fragrance of dhuno during festivals.
And maybe that itself is spiritual.
Because devotion is not always preserved through perfect knowledge.
Sometimes it survives quietly through memory and feeling.
Through the smell of incense in the evening.
Through shiuli flowers on wet autumn mornings.
Through clothes returning home carrying traces of temple smoke and sandalwood.
Some fragrances do not just smell sacred.
They become part of who we are.
There are days when you sit in front of the diya…
everything is in place…
The samagri is ready…
The mantra is playing on YouTube…
…and yet, nothing moves inside.
No emotion.
No connection.
It starts to feel like a task.
Something to just finish.
If you’ve ever felt this way during puja, you’re not alone.
And more importantly, this doesn’t mean your puja is failing.
Some days, your mind is शांत.
Some days, it’s scattered across a hundred thoughts.
And both are real.
We often assume that puja should feel peaceful, divine, almost cinematic (like Karan Johar’s movies..bell ringing , elaborate diyas , expensive flower decorations)…But real devotion doesn’t always arrive with a feeling. Sometimes, it arrives as an Effort.
Showing up—even without feeling anything—is also Bhakti.
You Are Not Performing for God
This is important to understand.
You are not being judged on:
Puja is not a performance review.
It’s a relationship.
And in any relationship, there are days of deep connection… and days of distance.
Both are part of the bond.
For most of my growing-up years, puja was something we were meant to participate in—and enjoy.
If it was a home puja, my brother and I had to wake up early in the morning.
But the excitement wasn’t really about the puja itself.
It was about everything around it.
Cutting chart paper for decorations…
drawing alpana and competing over who did it better…and most importantly—waiting eagerly for the puja to end so we could finally have the sweets.
That was our connection back then.
Playful. Light. Effortless.
But as I grew older, even those small joys started feeling like tasks.
The same decorations…
the same rituals…
began to feel repetitive.
And slowly, without even realising it, I stepped away.
I wasn’t participating anymore.
I had become a spectator.
Just showing up at the end… serving prasad…and moving on.
No resistance. But no connection either.
And maybe that’s why, when I sit for puja today and feel nothing…it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. Because somewhere along the way, I know this is temporary.
Connection doesn’t disappear in one day. And it doesn’t come back in one day either.
It rebuilds slowly. Not through perfection…but through returning.
Shift the Expectation
The problem often isn’t the lack of connection.
It’s the expectation that a connection must happen every time.
Instead of asking: “Why am I not feeling anything?”
Try asking: “Can I just be here… without needing to feel something?”
That shift changes everything.
On days when you feel disconnected, don’t push yourself to do everything.
Do less—but do it gently.
That’s enough.
Devotion doesn’t measure quantity. It responds to sincerity—even if it feels quiet.
Your thoughts will wander. That’s natural.
Instead of getting frustrated, bring your attention back like you would guide a child—softly, without anger.
You can:
Connection doesn’t need force. It grows with patience.
This is something we don’t talk about enough.
Not every puja will feel meaningful in the moment.
But over time, something shifts.
Slowly. Quietly. Almost invisibly.
And one day, without trying, you feel it again.
Not because you forced it. But because you stayed.
On days when even the beginning feels heavy…
Having things ready can make it a little easier to simply sit and start.
That’s why I created Puja Paath—to gently support your practice with thoughtfully prepared essentials, so you can focus less on arranging… and more on just being present.
No pressure. No perfection.
Just a small step towards showing up.
We’re thinking, planning, worrying, scrolling…
Even when we stand in front of the home mandir, a part of us is still elsewhere.
The bell cuts through that.
That one clear sound does something very simple—but very powerful:
It brings you here.
Not permanently. But enough.
Enough to begin.
I remember visiting temples where the bells never seemed to stop. From the moment my mother and I stepped off the bus, we would follow that continuous sound—through narrow lanes and crowded गलियाँ—letting it guide us all the way to the mandir.
A continuously… gently overlapping sound reminding.
Someone entering.
Someone offering pranam.
Someone is leaving.
At first, it felt like noise.
But after a while, it started feeling like a rhythm.
Almost like the temple was breathing.
And somewhere in that sound, my own thoughts began to slow down.
Because starting matters.
Before a puja begins, we’re not always ready.
We may have just come from a phone call, a task, a distraction.
The bell acts like a signal—to the mind, and maybe something deeper:
“I am here now.”
It clears a kind of inner space. Not by force. But by interruption.
Because stepping out of a sacred space is also a moment of transition.
You’re not just walking away from the mandir—
you’re returning to your everyday life.
And that shift can be abrupt… unless something softens it.
That final ring creates a pause. A gentle closing.
Almost like sealing what you just experienced— so it doesn’t get lost the moment you step outside. It’s not about holding on tightly, but about leaving with a sense of quiet completeness.
As if something within you has settled… and you carry that steadiness with you, even as the noise of the world slowly returns.
The Energy of Sound
Traditionally, it’s believed that the sound of a bell creates positive vibrations.
Not in a mystical, complicated way. But in a very felt way.
A well-made bell produces a sound that is:
Steady.
Long-lasting.
Resonant.
It doesn’t just ring—it lingers. It fills the space , your mind and every cell of your body.
And for a few seconds, everything else becomes secondary. At that moment, there is only sound. And surprisingly… that can feel like silence.
आगमार्थं तु देवानां गमनार्थं तु राक्षसाम्।
कुर्वे घंटारवं तत्र देवताह्वान लाञ्छनम्॥
Meaning (you can keep this simple, in your tone):
The sound of the bell is to invite the divine and to remove negative energies. It marks the beginning of calling the presence of the देवता.
Maybe this is why the sound feels so complete… as if it clears space, and then fills it.
Because it gathers everything scattered within you and brings it into one point. And that’s why sound has always been such an integral part of our traditions.
Even in classical dance, we wear ghungroo.
Not as an ornament. But as awareness.
Every step a dancer takes is heard. Every movement becomes accountable.
You cannot drift. You cannot move absent-mindedly.
The sound brings you back—again and again—into the present moment.
It creates a rhythm between the body and the mind.
Almost like saying: Be here. Fully.
In a way, the temple bell does something similar. It’s not just creating sound in the space…
it’s creating a presence within you.
Just like the ghungroo aligns movement with rhythm, the bell aligns your mind with the moment. Both are gentle reminders.
Why No Bell in Kojagori Lakshmi Puja?
There’s a quiet exception to this.
During Kojagori Lakshmi Puja, bells are traditionally not rung.
Because this puja happens at night.
And it is believed that Goddess Lakshmi arrives softly… gently… almost quietly.
Not with an announcement. But with presence. So instead of calling out loudly…
We receive her with mantras, flowers and dhoop.That contrast itself is beautiful.
Sometimes devotion is about awakening the space. And sometimes… it’s about not disturbing it
How This Helps in Daily Life
You don’t need a temple to experience this. Even in your own home… That one small bell before your puja can do a lot. It creates a beginning. A boundary.
A moment that says—
“Now I shift.”
And maybe that’s what we need more than anything.
Not longer rituals.
Not perfect mantras.
Just small, conscious transitions.From noise… to awareness. From rush… to presence.
The bell is not there to make God listen. It’s there to make us listen.
To ourselves.
To the moment.
To something quieter underneath all the noise.
And sometimes… that is where the real puja begins.
We intend to pray daily.
We really do.
We set small intentions in our heads—
“From tomorrow, I’ll sit for 10 minutes.”
“At least one diya every day.”
And then… life happens.
Mornings get rushed.
Work spills over.
Someone calls.
Something feels more urgent.
And before we realise, days pass.
Not because we don’t care. But because life is full.
Let’s say this clearly—
There is no guilt here.
You are not doing anything wrong.
You are not “failing” at devotion.
You are simply living your life.
What if daily prayer didn’t feel like something you have to complete…
but something you can gently return to?
Not perfect.
Not elaborate.
Just… steady.
Because connection isn’t built in one long, flawless ritual.
It grows in small moments you come back to—again and again.
Some days, it might be as simple as lighting an agarbatti and standing quietly for a couple of minutes.
Some days, just pausing in front of your altar, closing your eyes, and taking a breath.
Sometimes, you might notice a beautiful flower and feel like offering it.
And if you are someone who finds comfort in structure, who likes doing things a certain way—this is for you.
1. Pause
Sit. Even if it’s just for a minute.
Let your mind arrive before your body does.
2. Light
A diya, an agarbatti, or even just a mental offering.
The act matters more than the object.
3. Acknowledge
Fold your hands.
Not for a perfect mantra—
just to say, “I am here.”
4. Speak or Sit in Silence
Say a small prayer.
Or say nothing at all.
Both are valid.
5. Close with Gratitude
One simple thought—
Thank you for today.
That’s it. No long lists. No fear of “doing it wrong.”
Just something you can return to… again and again.
Some days, it will feel deep and meaningful.
Some days, it will feel mechanical.
Both are okay. Because what matters is not how perfect it feels— but that you showed up.
Over time, something shifts.
The space starts feeling familiar.
The act feels lighter.
The connection feels… closer.
Not because you forced it. But because you stayed with it.
Consistency doesn’t demand perfection. It only asks for presence.
And slowly, quietly— that,
Presence becomes a Connection.
Even if you don’t know the mantras,
even if you are unsure of the “right way,”
your hand still reaches for the matchstick…
you still pause in front of the altar…
you still light the flame.
But have you ever wondered—
Why a diya?
Why not just a bulb, or a tube light, or any other source of light?
Unlike electric light, a Diya is alive. It flickers. It moves. It responds. You cannot ignore it.
A diya is not just about removing darkness. It is about creating presence.
The moment a Diya is lit, something shifts in the space… and within you.
There is a quiet invitation:
Pause. Be here. This moment matters.
In our traditions, lighting a Diya symbolises moving from:
Agyan (ignorance) → Gyaan (awareness)
Restlessness → Stillness
Outside noise → Inner connection
But this is not philosophical in a distant way. It is deeply practical.
When you light a diya before a puja, you are not just preparing the space…
You are preparing yourself.
Because a switch requires no involvement. A Diya does.
You have to:
Pour the oil or ghee
Place the wick
Light it carefully
This small act does something subtle but powerful—it brings intention into the moment.
And intention is what transforms an action into a ritual.
The diya continues to burn quietly as the puja happens.
And even if your mind wanders (which it will),
the flame becomes a gentle anchor.
It reminds you: Come back.
You are here for something meaningful
I had once shared a short reflection on this on Instagram—
if you prefer watching over reading, you can see it here.
https://www.instagram.com/p/DKwGQntucu_/
You don’t need a perfectly shaped diya.
You don’t need elaborate setups.
Even a small flame is enough.
Because what matters is not how big the light is…
But whether you allowed yourself to pause, light it, and be present for a moment.
If daily puja feels overwhelming, start with just this:
Light a diya.
Stand there for a minute.
Say nothing, or say a simple prayer.
That’s enough.
Because sometimes, connection doesn’t begin with a long ritual—
It begins with a single flame.
The thali with naibidya had to be arranged a certain way.
The flowers, durva grass, agarbatti, diya, the decor had to be specific.
The mantras had to be recited without a single mistake.
I actually never had this fear growing up.
Since all of this was taken care of by my parents.
And in my head, they knew everything. They had been doing it for years.
Whatever they were doing… was right. It was perfect.
I never had to question anything.
The real fear started much later. After I got married.
I don’t stay with my in-laws, but there were frequent visits.
And during those visits, I would suddenly be asked to do certain rituals.
Small things, sometimes.
But enough to make me realise—I didn’t really know what I was doing.
And somewhere in all of this, there was always a quiet, underlying fear —
What if something goes wrong?
What if I forget something?
Will the puja still “count”?
For the longest time, I thought puja was about getting everything right.
I still remember one of the first few pujas at my in-laws’ place.
Everyone seemed to know exactly what to do.
There was no pause, no second-guessing.
Things just… moved.
And then I was asked to draw a Swastik at the entrance—as the daughter-in-law.
I remember my hand shaking slightly.
At that moment, I wasn’t thinking of anything spiritual.
Just quietly asking myself—
Am I doing this correctly?
Is this the right direction?
What if I get it wrong?
And I could feel everyone watching.
In the family group someone passed the flowers at the right moment. Someone repeated the mantras softly, almost under their breath. And I was sitting in between all of this, trying to understand the rhythm.
I didn’t know when exactly to offer the flower. I didn’t know which mantra I was supposed to repeat and which one I was just meant to listen to.
I didn’t even know if I was holding the thali correctly.
The aarti moved from one person to another, the couples were supposed to do aarti..When my time came …I asked myself if it was three or seven times? Do we need to move the thaali in a circular manner or sway it in front of deity? So much confusion…
So I did what felt safest. I watched. And then I Copied.
A second late, every time.
I remember being very aware of myself at that moment.
Not in a spiritual way.
But in a self-conscious way.
Am I doing this right?
Did I miss something?
Should I ask… or will that make it worse?
And the strange part was—
I was physically present in the puja,
but mentally, I was somewhere else entirely.
Trying to keep up.
Trying to not stand out.
Trying to not get it wrong.
It was exhausting.
Later, when it was all over and everyone got up,
there was this quiet discomfort I couldn’t quite explain.
I tried to think back to the puja—
What was it for?
What did I feel?
And I realised… I couldn’t remember.
I remembered the sequence.
I remembered my hesitation.
I remembered my anxiety.
But there was no peace.
No sense of wholeness.
And that stayed with me.
Not as a big realisation.
Just as a small, lingering thought—
If I was there the whole time…
Why did it feel like I wasn’t really there at all?
