I’ve illustrated these numbers not to write a thesis on religious statistics but to make a finer point that questions the existence of adherents itself. My curiosity is more on why we get together and try and organise one another on the basis of commonality of beliefs. Is it the membership of a respectable club that gives us a sense of belonging, a feeling of being part of a larger, powerful whole, a classification that allows us to socialise and get on with the business of life seamlessly?

Send your comments to the columnist Name Your E-Mail Your Comments

Shouting distance from my silent room are a couple of religious organisations that scream their sect’s beliefs every Saturday evening, reminding the rest of us of the noble, holy, sanctified and framed presence of their leaders. Between their out-of-tune renditions and the traffic jams as a result from a streaking sliver of chanters, this question raises its head again. As it does when my mornings are broken by loud but soulful religious wake up calls.

The problem emerges when one mortal merges into That through a spiritual transformation and from whose mouth the truth of the Truth can be heard, felt, seen. Krishna or Christ, for instance. Each of us has it within us to cross this line—that’s what all those who have crossed it, tell us. But need we follow their precise path?

I don’t think it’s possible for me to copy-paste Meerabai’s bhakti, Vivekananda’s strength, Krishnamurti’s solitude. Being made of a different material, mental and spiritual substance from them, I have my unique dharma to follow, my distinct path—create my own religion, so to speak. To institutionalise their words, their work, their journey into a dogmatic organisation for others to read, follow and walk on is, I suspect, going against the soul of their teachings. At best it makes for cosy networking; at worst, exclusion, intolerance.