Worshiping with my father as a child established my connection with Hinduism and allowed me to later pass it on to my own son
by Murali Balaji, New Jersey
When i was growing up in the Philadelphia suburbs, our house was small enough for me to hear the 4:30 am alarm sounding in my parents’ room. That meant it was time for my dad to get up, shower and do his morning prayers for well over an hour.
As a teenager, I enjoyed sitting with my dad in front of our altar (which he built) and saying some of the same mantras, or prayers, even though I could never wake up as early as he did. But the feeling of praying with my father profoundly shaped my connection to Hinduism and my desire to keep practicing the faith into adulthood.
Part of the reason I felt that connection was that, at least for the 30 minutes or so I shared with him in front of the altar, my father and I were able to break through an invisible wall that existed between us. We had little in common, so extended conversations were rare. Besides basketball (we were both 76ers fans), we didn’t talk about much in terms of life. I rarely asked him for advice, because I felt he really never understood me.
I grew up on hip-hop, 80s and 90s rock and metal, and played sports extensively. I took very little interest in the Hindu devotionals my parents would listen to, and I still cannot believe I did not appreciate singers like M.S. Subbalakshmi and Yesudas much earlier in life. My dad worked two jobs a lot when I was young, and when he was home, he was constantly fixing things around the house—a hobby I didn’t take much interest in until I was a homeowner myself years later. Whenever his family friends would visit, they would get wrapped up in discussions about American politics or sometimes venture into the state of politics in Tamil Nadu while I would daydream about becoming a professional basketball player.
That’s why praying with dad strengthened my bond in a way that no long conversation ever could. When I went to college 1,000 miles away at the University of Minnesota, I no longer had the benefit of sitting with him and praying in front of the family altar adorned with beautiful paintings of various Deities and photographs of Hindu religious leaders. One of the things my dad gifted me when I went to college was a set of my own murtis, which I set up in my dorm room. My own altar—stuffed into a dorm closet right above my sock drawer—gave me a sense of home and evoked memories of my dad and me praying together.
To be honest, I didn’t know the meanings of many of the prayers I grew up saying, but repeating them—and closing my eyes and imagining my father next to me—gave me a sense of comfort and peace in an otherwise hectic college life. More importantly, those prayers and the murtis reminded me I was never far from home. At Minnesota, my daily exposures to “Minnesota Nice” (residents are known for their friendliness) included getting proselytized on my way to classes, so I could always find refuge in my altar—and know that my dad’s presence was near.
Nearly 30 years later, I still have those same murtis, which have become part of our family altar. I now know the meanings of most of the prayers I uttered as a teenager and 20-something, and my dad and I have had more conversations about religious topics. Following the death of my mother, my dad became more interested in reading about religious leaders, and became more engaged with aspects of Hindu philosophy, particularly ideas extolled by modern gurus such as the late Kanchi seer, Jagadguru Shri Chandrasekharendra Saraswati Mahaswamigal. My dad and I talk more about politics and sports, but it has been great to engage with him on topics related to our faith. Every year, we still sit together to change our sacred threads, a custom I have enjoyed for close to 35 years.
The time I spent with my dad in prayer has significantly shaped my own approach to fatherhood, particularly as a Hindu in an intercultural marriage (see my article on my marriage in the July, 2023, issue). As a father now, I relish the chance to do evening prayers with my son, though my wife and I have a more blended version of prayers that combines my Tamil and her Indo-Caribbean backgrounds.
Our son sings along to the prayers, and he applies the vibhuti, or holy ash, on our foreheads. Even as a toddler, he sings South Indian devotionals such as “Swagathan Krishna” and “Alaipauthey Kanna”—the versions sung by Yesudas—and North Indian ones such as “Man Tarpat Hari Darshan,” sung by Mohammed Rafi. We hope that his engagement and enjoyment during those few minutes profoundly shapes his own relationship with Hinduism.
I don’t know if my son will follow the same path as my wife and I, but spending that time with him in front of the altar has put into perspective the values my dad tried to teach me during our morning prayers. He didn’t have the same experience of growing up in the United States as I did, but he did the best he could to help me better understand what it meant to practice Hinduism. I also have come to appreciate how hard he and my mother worked to make Hinduism a part of their kids’ daily practice despite pressures to “Americanize.” In some ways, Hinduism was a “language” that we learned because of how we repeated what our parents did.
I am truly grateful to my father for that time. Even as he nears 80, he still gets up and does his daily prayers, and that commitment inspires me to do the same. It’s an enduring gift from father to son, one that I hope I can pass down as dutifully as he did.
About the Author
Murali Balaji is a journalist and a lecturer at the Annenberg School for Communication at the University of Pennsylvania.