Every devout Hindu usually has a favourite deity. And every deity, in turn, has one or more places of worship where prayers are believed to be more effective than elsewhere – and therefore worth the time, effort and money they demand. Be that as it may, I have no desire to question the faith of any believer, in any deity, at any place of worship, or even any idea of the divine. If worship gives someone hope, confidence, or the strength to deal with fear and uncertainty, that itself is justification enough.
What does trouble me, however, is the practice of VIP darshan.
It represents a peculiar moral shortcut – a quiet but widely accepted belief that the end justifies the means. That if one can reach the sanctum sanctorum faster by leveraging wealth, status, or connections, then one should. It is an approach to worship that fits into no precept of any scripture I am aware of, and certainly into no idea of humility that religion so often preaches.
The stated logic is usually practical: time is precious; queues are long; responsibilities are many. And yet, when one looks closely, the logic is not very different from the one used to justify cutting corners elsewhere in life. What makes it unsettling is not merely the bypassing of the ordinary devotee – standing patiently for hours, sometimes days – but the absence of any discomfort about it.
Instead of guilt, what I often see is pride.
There is pride in recounting how effortlessly one “managed” darshan. Pride in knowing the right person, paying the right amount, or belonging to the right category. Pride, even, in narrating the impatience one was spared. The queue, it seems, is for others – anonymous, faceless, dispensable. The deity, apparently, understands.
But what is being sought in that hurried moment before the idol? Grace? Blessings? Inner peace? Or simply the satisfaction of having completed a transaction efficiently?
Religions across traditions speak of equality before the divine. Of surrender. Of ego dissolving at the threshold of the sacred. And yet, VIP darshan institutionalises hierarchy at precisely that threshold. It converts faith into a fast-track system and devotion into a premium service.
One might argue that the deity does not discriminate; that these are merely human arrangements. That may well be true. But then the question shifts – from what God thinks to what we are willing to accept about ourselves.
If standing in a queue with strangers tests patience, empathy, and humility, perhaps that too is a form of prayer. And if bypassing it flatters our sense of importance, perhaps that too reveals something – but not about the divine.
An ordinary life 
Leave a comment