A far-right friend once asked me why I only criticize Hinduism.
It is a question most of my far-right friends ask, often with rage. (I am just retaining a few of them so I do not get sucked into a far left echo chamber entirely)

I was raised in a liberal Hindu household. My parents were not believers in daily pooja or aarti. I never had to fast or chant. I do not think I have ever seen my parents do it either.

We celebrated festivals not out of devotion or fear, but for the sheer joy of it. We visited what felt like an insane number of temples, but the excitement was always about the travel, the cousins, the architecture. I was taught to admire how beautiful a temple looked, not fear what God might do if I did not comply.

Every night, my mother read me stories from mythology. Not as commandments, but as characters. “These could be the people in your life,” she would say. “Map them, play with them, see what they teach you.” Ahh, I miss those good old days of lying next to her on the rooftop, listening with so much curiosity.

I was encouraged to learn shlokas from the Gita. Not for salvation, but because my family loved languages. We approached it for its rhythm and beauty, not for the doctrine.

I also grew up listening to Carnatic vocals, not because we were devout, but because we were in awe of the craft. The poetry, the phrasing, the sheer emotion packed into a raga. It was not worship. It was wonder. We would marvel at how a single line could hold both melody and meaning, how devotion could sound so beautiful, even when you did not believe.

Even today, I still love listening to those songs. Sometimes I wonder if God did exist, how delightful it must be for him to hear such devotion rendered with so much beauty. Not as obligation, but as art.

I grew up. I stepped out of home. I read more mythology and Hindu literature. Not because I believe in flying monkeys or divine weapons, but because stories shape memory. They shape how societies view gender, power, morality, and violence. That lens matters.

And over time, I became an atheist. Not out of rebellion, but out of clarity.
But even now, I find myself returning to the religion I was born into. Not as a believer, but as a witness, a reader, and often, a critic.

We Were Taught to Think... Until We Did.

The deeper issue with religion is not just belief or ritual. It is how religion often codifies inequality and makes it sacred. It turns social hierarchies into divine order. It tells people their place, and then calls that order holy. Across geographies and faiths, religion has been used to control who speaks, who leads, and who submits. It rarely rewards doubt. It almost never protects dissent. And it has worked hand in hand with patriarchy to keep women, caste-oppressed communities, and minorities in check, often without needing force.

Religion, as it is practiced especially by those in power, has rarely been a woman’s friend. It has sung hymns to goddesses while asking real women to shrink, stay silent, and sacrifice.

Even in Hinduism, which often prides itself on complexity and openness, the contradiction is sharp.

There is a whole tradition in Hindu thought that once celebrated debate and inquiry, often referred to as Tarka Shastra. These were not side notes in philosophy. They were central to how people explored ideas, questioned authority, and even debated the existence of God.

Ancient texts engaged deeply with atheism, dualism, and metaphysical doubt. Logic was seen as a valid way of knowing, not just scripture.

And yet, in everyday practice, most rituals are performed without question. Doubt is often seen as disrespect. Women are still told not to enter temples when menstruating. Lower castes are excluded entirely in many spaces.

So yes, Hinduism told me to think.
But it also quietly asked me to fall in line.

Why My Voice Stays Home

I choose to engage only with this religion not because I think it is worse than others, but because it is the one I know intimately. I have seen how it threads through my friends’ weddings, their parents’ mourning, their rituals, their guilt. I have the context to critique it with care.

In a country where religious lines are sharpening by the day, I refuse to weaponise my voice against those whose lived experience I do not share. I will not list what is wrong with Islam or Christianity or Jainism. I have no right to.

Let me first look at my own house and ask, why are its doors closed to so many who question its foundations?