I have faint memories of lying in my childhood bed, in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, and pappa’s snoring kept me up. Our ceiling fan was off-white and had silver beads in the middle, which made a weird pattern when the fan was on a slow speed. I remember looking and pretending like that’s where God lives. I remember talking to my God seated in the fan. Praying for my parents’ good health, praying that tomorrow I get to drink a full glass of the new peach iced tea.
Then there are the stories my grandmother would tell the kids about her God at dinner, and my mum had stories from her childhood, too. I remember going to the temple every morning during our summer breaks with my cousins. 
Once I got old enough, I remember lighting the diya in our home temple every morning before going to school. 

I remember knowing God.

As I grew older, God became more predominant. I liked reading mythology and started making these personal connections to the stories and the characters. God became an equal as if we were friends, and I could confide in my God, get angry, upset, make bargains, share secrets. My God and I were friends, and then I moved to the Netherlands. It was almost as if I got on a plane and went to a different time zone, but my God remained in India, in Vadodara, in my house, specifically. And thus began my journey of finding God.

I tried going to the temples in Rotterdam. I have these really cute little idols of gods on my study table, I have pictures of my ancestors and family members who passed away to be with my God. I light incense sticks. I pray. I listen to bhajans. I chant Hanuman Chalisa and I call my mum every day. I still read mythology. I go to churches with my Orthodox friends. I discuss religion with my international peers. I keep seeking God.

And then every year I come home and on Saturday mornings, I meet God.

Sitting behind my father’s scooter as he carelessly drives through the small lanes in the old city. There is a God every five minutes there. We drive past the Panchmukhi Hanuman temple and we bow down our heads. We struggle to get a peek of Ganpati bappa near Siddhivinayak temple but he is always kind enough to show his grandeur through the crowd. Then we get a glimpse of the mighty Mahadev standing tall in the middle of Sur Sagar Lake; you couldn’t miss him even if you tried. And finally, pappa breaks his speed right in front of my Amba Maa. The priest unconsciously hands me prasad without me even asking. My mogra lady recognises me even though I was gone for almost an year. We then quickly run to my father’s favourite Hanuman Temple, buy limbu-marcha for the factory and make a quick stop at the Dehrasar my grandfather helped build decades ago. At the Dehrasar, the temple caretaker struggles to recall my name but asks me how my grandma is. Maybe he remembers me from all the summer breaks I spent there with her and my cousins. 

The point remains, God lives in India, in Vadodara, in my house, and in my spinning fan, specifically. God waits for you at every crossroad, under every big old tree, in the old city and in the new developing areas next to the parking zones of cool artsy cafes. 

In India, God is everywhere and blessings are abundant. So I forget to pray every morning and write in my gratitude journal. I only find the time to meet my Gods on Saturday mornings. I never miss a Saturday, but a week has seven days and in Rotterdam, I am finding god on all seven of those.
In Rotterdam, I pray every morning, meditate, write in my gratitude journal, listen to bhajans during my daily chores, call my mum, and never hang up without saying Jai Jinendra, Jay Shree Krishna, I love you. 

How dare I spend more time with God abroad- looking for them, calling for them, yearning for them?
I wonder if I had to move away from God to realise their value? I found God too early and too easily in life. I wonder if God is to be found through hard work, penance and patience.
Thus, this struggle of finding God, even when I know exactly where they live, is my penance.
Maybe faith is just yearning. Yearning and seeking and waiting. 
Maybe God is in the yearning and seeking and waiting.
Maybe I am Mira, and I must yearn and yearn and yearn to find my Krishna.
Maybe I seek Krishna while he waits to be found within me.
I am finding God or God is finding me, or maybe I am finding me.