The temple perched high above the city, watching over the winding lanes and the sea of blue rooftops like a silent sentinel. As we made our way up, each step felt like a small ascent into something sacred. The chaos of the city faded behind us, replaced by a hush that seemed to grow with every footstep.

When we entered the temple, we saw the towering figure of Lord Hanuman—majestic and immense. So tall, in fact, that we had to tilt our necks all the way back just to see his face. No photo could ever capture him in a single frame; his presence was not meant to be confined like that. His presence was meant to be felt.

The atmosphere was calm, yet charged with something unspoken. A peace that didn’t just surround you—it sank into your skin. There was something undeniably powerful about the silence there, broken only by the occasional ring of a bell or murmur of a prayer.

We bowed, offered our prayers, and were just about to leave when someone mentioned the evening aarti was about to begin. Something about that moment told us to stay. And we did.

The aarti began like a slow, rising tide—bells ringing, chants echoing, flames flickering in harmony with ancient rhythm. The priest’s hand moved in circles with the diya, and for a while, the world outside didn’t exist. Only light, sound, and a deep, collective devotion. It wasn’t loud, yet it stirred something inside.

Standing there, watching people close their eyes and whisper their hopes into the air, I couldn’t help but wonder—what is it that makes us do this? Maybe it’s not about proof of divinity. Maybe it’s about the beauty of belief. People find comfort in a god who’s always listening—even if he never speaks back.

People turn to God for a thousand different reasons—some beg for strength, some whisper for healing, others just want someone, anyone, to listen. And if you pause for a moment and really think about it… isn’t that the quiet poetry of being human? This desperate, beautiful need to believe that we’re not alone.

I don’t know if God is truly out there—watching, listening, waiting. But I know what I’ve seen: eyes closed in prayer, hands trembling with faith, lips moving not out of habit, but from hope. And sometimes, that hope is louder than proof. The ones with no one left—they speak to Him. The ones unloved, unseen, forgotten by the world they feel accepted in the silence of a temple or church

We are fragile beings, clinging to reasons to stay afloat. Some find it in people, some in purpose. And many, when there’s nothing else left, find it in prayer. Not because they are weak, but because even in the ache of loneliness, the human spirit still reaches out—for comfort, for meaning, for something greater than the pain.

And maybe that’s the miracle. Not whether God exists, but that hope does.

By the time the aarti ended, the sun had vanished completely, and the sky was dressed in stars. Around 8 PM, we began walking down the slope again, the city’s noise gradually returning like a distant hum.

Our next stop was a bustling fast-food corner tucked into a lively street. Lights flickered, scooters honked, and people floated around in all directions. We grabbed a quick dinner, barely talking—just letting the food do its job.

Then, without any rush or drama, we headed back home.