Your Religion Doesn't Own Your Language.

A Gentle Note Before You Read:

The thoughts I share here touch upon two of the most personal and sensitive aspects of our lives: our faith and our language. My intention is not to criticise or disrespect any specific tradition, belief, or community. In fact, it is the opposite. This piece comes from a place of deep respect for all paths and a sincere hope for greater understanding and unity among us. I hope you will read it in the spirit in which it was written—as an invitation to a conversation, aimed at dissolving walls, not building new ones.

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The Essence We Often Forget

Prayer and Language: Bridges, Not Boundaries

A few days ago, I put down some thoughts on a topic that sits close to my heart: the true purpose of prayer and language. I wrote about how these beautiful gifts, meant to connect us, have often been turned into walls that divide us. The core idea was simple: we must return them to their essence.

Since then, these thoughts have continued to echo in my mind, prompting me to explore them a little further with you. Why have we allowed this to happen? And more importantly, how do we begin to find our way back?

The Container and the Contents

It seems to me that as societies, we have fallen in love with the container and forgotten the contents.

Think about it. Prayer, at its heart, is about the feeling it is meant to evoke—humility, gratitude, a quiet connection to something larger than ourselves. That is the content. The form it takes—the specific words, the direction we face, the rituals we perform—is merely the container. Yet, we have become so fiercely protective of the container that we sometimes end up fighting over it, forgetting the shared human feeling it was meant to hold. We judge others for the shape of their container, while the precious content within is ignored.

Language is no different. Its content is the meaning, the emotion, the idea we wish to share. The specific dialect or script is the container. When we insist that a child must learn the language of their "community" even when it isolates them from their neighbours, we are saying the container matters more than the connection it is supposed to facilitate. We are choosing a label over a conversation.

The Human Need for a Tribe

But why do we do this? I believe it comes from a place that is deeply human: the need for a tribe, for safety, for a sense of belonging. This instinct is not malicious. It is the simple, human search for a home, for a "we". Our shared rituals and common tongue become the warm, familiar walls of that home.

The danger arises when our "we" is defined only by who is "not we". The walls of our home should be for shelter, not for imprisonment. They should have windows and doors, allowing us to see and connect with the homes of others.

Some might say, "But Kesari, are these traditions not essential for preserving our culture?" And they are absolutely right. The goal is not to erase our unique cultural identities. A garden is beautiful because of its many different flowers, not because it has only one. But preservation should never mean isolation. We must cherish our heritage, but we must do so with open arms. We must see our language and our prayers as our unique colour in a magnificent, shared rainbow—not as a flag for a separate army.

Finding Our Way Back

So, how do we begin to change this mindset? The change, as always, begins within us and with our children.

It begins when we teach a child that the goal of prayer is to become a kinder person, not just a better follower of a specific label. It begins when we encourage that same child to learn the language of their playmates, to build bridges of friendship in their own neighbourhood.

It happens when we, as adults, make an effort to understand the essence behind a tradition that is not our own. Listen to a prayer from another faith and try to feel the devotion behind the unfamiliar words. Learn a few phrases in the language of the person who sells you your vegetables.

These are small acts, but they are revolutionary. They are acts that reclaim the true purpose of these gifts. They remind us that before we are Hindu, Muslim, Christian, or anything else, we are human. And before we speak Telugu, Urdu, Hindi, or English, we speak the universal language of human experience.

Let us not be defined by the walls we build, but by the hands we extend across them. For in the end, the most sacred language is kindness, and the most powerful prayer is an open heart.