Why Do Modern Indian Women Still Fast? Unpacking the Fear Behind Our Rituals!!

 While chatting with a friend yesterday, I had a realization about how subtly fear dictates our habits. We were talking about Karwa Chauth, which she had observed just a day prior. It led to a larger, uncomfortable question we rarely ask out loud: Why do we actually follow these rituals?

1. It’s Not About Belief—It’s About Conditioning

Let’s be honest: do most of us genuinely believe that skipping food and water for a day can mathematically increase our husband's lifespan? No, we don't. We know it’s a custom, not a superpower.

Yet, we still keep the fast. Why? Because we have been conditioned since childhood. Whether it’s Karwa Chauth, Vat Savitri, or any other puja traditionally kept by women for the health and longevity of husbands, brothers, or children, the script was written long before we were born.

2. The Curious Case of Modern Clothes vs. Ancient Guilt

Think about how our lifestyles have evolved. The modern Indian woman has seamlessly traded traditional sarees for comfortable jeans and work trousers. We don't wear glass bangles 24/7 like our mothers and grandmothers did.

Yet, while our wardrobes modernized effortlessly, our superstitions remained intact. Why?

Because deep down, a quiet, nagging fear lingers: What if?

What if something goes wrong? If a husband catches a mild fever the day after Karwa Chauth—just after a woman contemplated skipping the fast—she will instantly blame herself. That lingering guilt is powerful enough to keep us compliant. We are still not brave enough to detach our life's outcomes from an abandoned ritual.

3. From Community Connection to Instagram Competition

Historically, these elaborate rituals likely served a very different purpose. Back when television didn't exist and literacy rates among women were low, festivals offered a rare form of socialization. Elaborate meal preps, dressing up, and gathering together provided a much-needed break from grueling daily routines.

Even our mothers practiced these age-old customs, but they didn't have the pressure of constant commercialization. Today, the landscape looks entirely different.

Festivals have morphed into a high-speed social media race. My feed is flooded with reels showcasing designer sarees, intricate mehendi, and heavy ornaments. What used to be a community bonding exercise now often feels like a performance of perfection.

Will Gen Z Break the Cycle?

Everything in culture grows, peaks, and eventually transforms. I believe these fear-based rituals will see a sharp decline, likely led by Gen Z. I certainly don’t expect them to carry forward customs born purely out of anxiety—and frankly, I would applaud them for letting go.

We’ve already lowered the bar from forcing daily sarees to embracing comfortable jeans. It’s time we find the courage to drop the practices we maintain solely because we are afraid of what might happen if we don't.

Why I Am Giving Up on Fear-Based Beliefs: Choosing Inquiry Over Superstition!!

 For a very long time, much of what passed for "spirituality" in my life was actually rooted in subtle fear.

Without realizing it, I was carrying a heavy bag of age-old conditioning:

The fear of unseen karmic debts or punishment.

The fear of not performing the "right" rituals or saying a chant enough times.

The constant anxiety that my failures, uncertainties, or pain were tied to some invisible wrath or bad omen.

We are raised in a culture where Lokdharma the popular tradition, frequently uses fear to keep us compliant. We are told terrifying stories of severe punishments, demonic forces, or cosmic traps, only to be offered quick "solutions" like rituals, special pilgrimages, or last-minute magic formulas.

Recently, as I sat reading through texts like the Garuda Purana and reflecting on stories like Ajamila's, a quiet realization washed over me: A relationship built on fear is not devotion; it is just self-defense.

If my spiritual practice is driven by fear—fear of suffering, fear of death, or fear of looking "ignorant" or "unsuccessful" in front of the world—then I am not moving toward Truth. I am merely trying to buy insurance for my ego.

I realized that:

Fear suffocates intelligence: When we act out of fear, we stop questioning. We accept blind superstitions simply because we are too afraid to stand in our own clarity.

True scriptures (Shruti) do not ask for fear: The Upanishads do not ask us to cringe in terror before a distant deity. They tell us that our true nature is Atman—Pure, Unbound Consciousness. The root of all our suffering is not a cosmic curse, but our own present ignorance (Avidya).

Liberation is NOW, not after death: If I am waiting for some afterlife reward while living in daily anxiety, I have missed the whole point. Jivanmukti is freedom while living—freedom from the projected images of the self and freedom from the fear of death itself.

Stepping Off the Treadmill

So today, I am consciously dropping the heavy baggage of fear-based beliefs.

I am giving up:

❌ The idea that God is a scorekeeper looking to punish my mistakes.

❌ The belief that rituals or "magical shortcuts" can replace honest, conscious living.

❌ The habit of postponing my peace and self-improvement to an imagined future or an afterlife.

Instead, I am choosing Self-Inquiry (Atma-Vichara).

I want to look directly into my own mind, to understand my daily choices, my attachments, and my fears. I don't want comforting fairy tales that put my mind to sleep; I want the sharp light of Truth that wakes me up.

If you, too, have been feeling exhausted by fear, guilt, and ritualistic pressure, know that it is completely okay to pause, question, and drop what no longer serves your growth.

Real freedom doesn't begin when fear is satisfied. Real freedom begins the moment fear is seen for what it is and is dropped.

The Keys We Seek, The Closures We Crave, and The Mirrors We Build!!

 ​Today is the auspicious occasion of Maha Navami of Durga Puja. On days like this, the mind often naturally turns inward, buzzing with quiet epiphanies, lingering questions, and quiet observations of the world around us.

​Two years ago, around this exact time, I wrote a line that stayed with me: It seems so easy to find the key to someone else’s lock, while I still don't know where mine is.

​My mind has been working on that puzzle in the background ever since. Today, a clear, logical answer finally surfaced.

​1. Why Can’t We See Our Own Solutions?

​Why is it so effortless to offer clarity to others, yet near impossible to find it for ourselves? Why does the person who solves everyone else’s problems still need a hand when their own life gets tangled?

​The answer is simple: You cannot see the storm clearly when you are standing in the middle of it.

​When you are inside the cage, the lock is out of sight. When you are feeling the sharp, heavy weight in your chest because nothing seems to work, emotion clouds perception. Wise thinkers often advise stepping into a second-person or third-person perspective—viewing your life as an objective outsider. While logically sound, achieving that distance requires immense emotional strength and mental discipline.

​I thought of a dear friend of mine. Years ago, after the heartbreaking loss of her husband, she felt compelled to leave her job. They had both worked at the same place, and the sheer weight of being there without him was unbearable. She couldn't see a way forward in that environment.

​Last month, after eight long years, she returned to that exact same workplace.

​Was it that time healed her? Or did larger, subsequent challenges make that original stress feel manageable? Perhaps a mix of both. Returning gave her a renewed sense of clarity and purpose. And just today, her daughter received an admission offer for a veterinary program at a central university. A visible sense of relief swept over her, knowing that in five years, her major maternal responsibilities will be fulfilled.

​Back then, in the peak of her tragedy, staying in that job seemed impossible to her—even though, from the outside, others felt it might provide long-term stability. It reminds us that clarity often arrives on its own timeline, only after the storm settles.

​2. The Illusion of Closure

​This brings up another question that often weighs on us: Why do we crave "closure" when someone hurts us or when life tears something away?

​I recently recalled an insight shared by Acharya Prashant. He referenced the tragic disappearance of Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370 in 2014. Extensive search operations were conducted, yet to this day, the wreckage has never been found. The grieving relatives were left asking one persistent question: "Just tell us what happened. We need closure."

​His observation was profound: Even if you find a reason, the wound itself does not automatically disappear. Finding out why or how something happened does not erase the pain.

​The most constructive path forward isn't obsessing over missing answers from the past, but protecting your present. The past hurt will echo, but letting present moments slip away in pursuit of an elusive "why" only incurs greater loss. For my friend, having meaningful, demanding work to anchor her days has been a quiet blessing. Staying meaningfully engaged is often the truest form of healing we can offer ourselves.

​3. The Mirrors We Are Building for Tomorrow

​From the inner workings of human grief, my thoughts shifted outward—to the technological landscape we are building for our children.

​We often talk about Artificial Intelligence as an independent, intelligent force. But does it truly have a brain? Not in the way we think. At its core, AI behaves much like a high-tech parrot,it simply imitates and repeats what it absorbs from us.

​If you prompt an AI image generator today to create a picture of a "scientist," what does it output? More often than not, it generates an image of an older, middle-aged Caucasian man with grey hair and a bald head. Not an Indian, not an African, not a woman. Where does this come from? Directly from our own collective biases.

​What concerns me even more is watching how the younger generation interacts with this technology. I’ve heard kids talking roughly to AI assistants, throwing around threats and harsh words like: "Tera khopdi tod dunga," "Mundi uda dunga," or dropping casual abuse.

​If machines are merely parrots echoing our behavior, what are we teaching them—and more importantly, what habits are we teaching our children when they treat responsive technology with hostility?

​As AI becomes deeply embedded in daily life, our responsibility as parents and educators shifts. How do we responsibly teach kids to be mindful of these technologies, to stay safe, and to ensure we don't pass on something dangerous or toxic to the future?

Why Are We Measuring Human Worth on a Spreadsheet?

 We live in a world obsessed with tallying things up. Corporate titles, monthly paychecks, physical status, if it can be priced and displayed, we call it valuable.

We’ve turned relationships into transactional spreadsheets. But what happens to the stuff you can't put a price tag on? The quiet sincerity, the patience, the willingness to show up in good faith without keeping score?

It gets spent in a market that doesn't even accept it.

There is a quiet, brutal shock when someone who operates from genuine emotional depth collides with people who only understand power and utility. When you approach a relationship or a family offering respect and total sincerity, you assume they speak that same language. You don't realize that to someone conditioned purely by status, your vulnerability doesn't look like a gift. It looks like leverage.

Because quiet empathy can't be itemized on a balance sheet, it gets overlooked. Or worse, the moment you step away from the treadmill to catch your breath, your worth is erased, and you're labeled a "burden."

And here is the most frustrating part: the people who cause the damage almost never carry the weight of it.

It is remarkably easy for people to minimize, rewrite, or completely forget what they did. Why? Because they don't have to live inside the aftermath. They walk away unbothered, while the person who gave everything in good faith is left carrying the entire memory of the wreckage.

The bitter truth is that most people won't care about the quiet architecture of your heart. They only care about what you yield for them.

Yet, inside that hard realization is complete freedom.

Seeking approval from people who measure human worth by external utility is like begging a blind person to describe a painting. They literally do not have the capacity to see what you are offering.

The moment you stop demanding that a broken mirror reflect your true worth, everything changes. You stop trying to explain yourself to people who are committed to misunderstanding you. You stop defending your choices, put your head down, and quietly protect what you are building in the background.

So ask yourself: How much of your life are you wasting trying to cash a check at a bank that doesn’t even carry your currency?

What if you stopped waiting for the very people who pushed you down to validate how you stood back up? What could you build if you finally took all that misdirected energy and invested it entirely in your own peace?

Why "Using AI to Its Full Potential" Is a Myth

 ​Recently, I came across a post that compared our current relationship with Artificial Intelligence to a person handed a massive, military-grade tank,only to use it to crush a single mosquito.

​The core argument was clear: AI models can now reason, write tens of thousands of lines of code, and analyze vast datasets. Yet most of us use them for simple, everyday queries. Why are our demands on this technology so small?

​It is a clever analogy, and it certainly makes you stop and think. But as someone who spent years working in IT operations before choosing a different path in life, the metaphor felt incomplete to me. It places the entire responsibility on human imagination, while ignoring the complex realities of access, context, and human limitations.

​Here is my perspective on why the gap between AI’s capacity and our daily usage isn't just about a lack of ambition and why that gap carries a personal weight for many of us.

​1. Capability Is Not the Same as Implementation

​Handing someone a tank does not make them a tank operator.

​Driving a high-powered machine requires specialized training, an underlying mission, and a coordinated crew. Similarly, asking whether the average person has the need or the specific technical depth to harness frontier AI models at their absolute limit misses a crucial step.

​Even when an individual has the curiosity to learn, translating raw AI capability into high-level, practical output requires domain-specific implementation skills. When technology evolves at a daily, relentless pace, expecting every person to keep up with its maximum potential is simply unrealistic. Most people use AI for "small" tasks not because they lack vision, but because small tasks fit their immediate, real-world scope.

​2. The Unspoken Power of an Ecosystem

​This brings me to a realization that haunts many professionals who have stepped away from corporate tech roles: individual effort can rarely replicate an active industry ecosystem.

​No matter how disciplined you are, or how many hours you dedicate to self-study at home, trying to explore AI independently is vastly different from working with it inside a structured corporate infrastructure. In a formal tech environment, you have daily immersion, cross-functional teams, real-time feedback loops, and large-scale data pipelines.

​When you leave that world behind even by choice, you realize that individual curiosity, while precious, lacks the sheer momentum and depth that a corporate environment naturally provides. You can own the tool, but you no longer sit inside the engine room.

​3. The Grief of Unmet Potential

​Looking back on past career decisions is rarely productive, yet it is a deeply human trait.

​For those of us who set aside corporate trajectories or long-term tech ambitions to prioritize other aspects of life - family, peace, or alternative creative pursuits- watching the rapid ascent of AI brings a quiet, nuanced form of grief. It is the realization that no matter how hard we try today, we may never fully satisfy that deep curiosity to test our limits alongside cutting-edge tools at scale.

​We carry the choice we made, along with the quiet awareness of the paths left unexplored.

​The original argument suggested that the mirror shows us how small our demand on AI is.

​I see it differently. The mirror doesn't just show our small demand, it reflects our realistic boundaries. It shows the gap between individual capacity and collective power, the steepness of the learning curve, and the quiet trade-offs we make throughout our lives.

​Using a powerful tool for quiet, everyday needs isn't necessarily a failure of vision. Sometimes, it is simply a reflection of where we are and accepting that is part of the journey.