Distance has a strange way of making bad news hurt even more. Sitting far away from my home state, my heart completely sank when I read a recent news headline: a Dalit woman was stopped from entering a temple by its priest.
A wave of pure anger rushed through me. Every part of me wanted to scream, “Is this really 2026? Are we still doing this?”
In the heat of that anger, some very blunt, harsh questions popped into my head. Why do Scheduled Caste (SC) and Scheduled Tribe (ST) communities even want to enter these temples? If a place insults your basic human dignity, why go there? Even scripture says to stay away from places that humiliate you. So, why not just walk away? Let the priests and their specific community have the temple to themselves. Let’s see how long they can run the grand show if the rest of society just stops showing up.
Of course, once I calmed down, a quieter, sadder thought took over. This isn't a new problem. These are the exact same priestly lines that once banned a King of Puri because he married a Muslim princess to save his kingdom. If they didn't even spare royalty, why do we expect them to treat ordinary people any better today? The priest of today is just following the age-old footsteps of the priests before him.
But then my logical mind goes even deeper. Take the beautiful legend of Patitapaban—the form of Lord Jagannath placed at the temple gate so that the people who were banned could still get a glimpse of Him. Was that truly a divine dream granted to the head priest? Or was it a clever political move by the King to keep the peace?
Money and power can do anything. It is hard to admit, but history shows that even the concept of God is often controlled by the powerful. Our folklore beautifully tells us how much Jagannath loved ordinary, marginalized devotees like Manika, Salabega, and Dasia Bauri. But folklore doesn't fund grand monuments. Without money and political power, you cannot build massive temples or carve giant statues.
This brings me to a deeper question about Jagannath himself. Long before He became the wooden idol (Daru) locked inside a massive temple, He was Nila Madhab—a simple deity worshipped by tribal people in the quiet secrecy of the forest. He wasn't trapped in stone or wood until the King and the priests took Him and rebuilt Him.
Today, grand rituals like Nabakalebara and the annual Ratha Yatra require cutting down hundreds of ancient trees every year. Is this environmental sacrifice truly what a loving, universal God wants? Or is it a grand show kept alive by those in power to maintain blind faith, ensuring no one asks questions and their own selfish interests are protected?
Asking these questions feels highly controversial. I usually avoid writing about things like this because I ask myself: What good will it actually do? But when I see such deep injustice happening in the name of faith, I cannot stop my mind from thinking otherwise.
We have to ask ourselves: are we actually worshipping God, or are we just worshipping the walls built to keep people out?
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