Dog (PC- Social Media)
Across the world, human beings have always searched for God. They have convinced themselves that somewhere above, in the vastness of the universe, there exists a supreme force that governs all power and order. Many people, however, shortened this long quest for the divine and began worshipping the so-called messengers themselves as God. That is precisely how countless godmen and self-styled saints found their flourishing markets. In our own understanding, we have located God in every particle of existence. Everything that exists in this creation—and even beyond it—is believed to be the manifestation and gift of that singular divine energy.
That is why, for us, almost everything becomes worthy of worship. We are, by nature, worshippers. We have innumerable gods and deities. Wherever we sense power, wherever we encounter something unusual, we begin to worship it. Leaders, actors, criminals, saints, ascetics, mullahs, clerics, fakirs—rivers, mountains, trees—everything becomes an object of reverence. Animals and birds too. We hardly need a reason to worship; we do not bother much with inquiry or verification. We assume that anything out of the ordinary, anything bearing an unusual form or distortion, must surely carry a divine message. That is why we have worshipped children born with physical anomalies, animals with unusual features, and even stones.
Yet, sometimes, we end up worshipping something so startling that it forces us to rethink everything afresh. That moment arrived when, in Bijnor district of Uttar Pradesh, an innocent stray dog began to be worshipped. People discovered divinity in the dog because it had reportedly circumambulated a temple idol for hours. That single act became its astonishing “miracle.” Those who had earlier chased it away or thrown leftovers at it now stood in queues for its darshan. People touched its feet to seek blessings. Biscuits were offered as prasad. Wishes were whispered before it. Shops selling flowers and offerings sprang up around the spot. Photos and videos went viral in the media. The dog’s fate changed overnight. It was declared a saint from a previous birth.
But the story ended abruptly—and sadly. It soon emerged that the poor dog was mentally ill and that its unusual behaviour was the result of that condition. The worship stopped. The dog slipped back into anonymity. No one knows whether anyone even cared about its treatment. After all, it was just a stray dog—what worth could it possibly have? Its brief moment of divinity was snatched away as suddenly as it had arrived.
People were disappointed. Not ashamed—just disappointed. Ashamed of what? This is our faith; it can settle upon anything. We can feed milk to idols. We can bow before animals born with deformities. We can turn tricksters into saints and holy men. And if something similar happens again, we will do that too.
Divinity, after all, can descend upon anything—living, inert, or lifeless. This transcends religions. Were any tests ever conducted for the countless saints, shrines, dargahs, or holy men we have accepted? Will they ever be? As long as there is a “higher power” and we remain below it, this will continue. The defeated need support, and even the victorious need support to remain victorious. There is little left in humanity that inspires trust, so if today it is a dog, tomorrow even a donkey will suffice.
This is also a matter of belief—of the heart. Neither belief nor the heart follows any scientific logic. Perhaps only when we rise above the perennial struggles of bread, employment, and health will we begin to use reason, questions, and intellect. We need support. God remains elusive; whoever serves the purpose becomes God, becomes the master. Everything runs on this hope. We may call it anything—faith, devotion, innocence, foolishness, cunning, self-interest, fear, or superstition. Perhaps it is all of these at once.
Those who are inert, and those mute animals and birds, do not proclaim the great soul or divinity hidden within them. They cannot. It is we who scrutinise their actions and their forms and then elevate them to sainthood.
That dog is merely a symbol of our collective mindset—a mindset that transcends caste and religion, singular and universal at the same time. That is why we begin touching feet, worshipping, and chanting praises without asking a single question. The result of this blind reverence is that even convicts guilty of heinous crimes secure parole with ease and go on to become our leaders and representatives.
In truth, our faith is so hollow that it collapses not under logic, but out of fear of questions—and yet it is so shameless that it stands back up with every new spectacle. The media is no longer a medium of information or inquiry; it has become a drumbeat to gather crowds. Miracles are decided by camera angles, and God’s stature by viral videos. Cameras do not question godmen who preach divinity amid displays of luxury cars worth crores; instead, they leave us awestruck by their opulence.
We bow our heads when we see blood oozing from a stone, but turn our eyes away from a bleeding human being in a hospital—because a human asks for help, while God asks for nothing. We are not afraid of superstition; we are afraid of introspection. Superstition comforts us, while introspection begins to ask questions.
We touch feet not out of devotion, but out of hope. We say that God resides in everyone, but the truth is that we see God only where we see benefit. This is not reverence; it is utility. It is not science that we hate, but fear—because science asks questions and demands responsibility, while worship absolves us from thinking.
Our entire system is woven from this very fabric. We lament disorder and misgovernance, assign blame, but never fix responsibility or ask questions. We preserve faith. And this very faith becomes an opportunity for others, while we merely serve as carriers of such opportunities.
Yesterday it was a dog; tomorrow it will be something else. Whether this cycle will ever break is hard to say, because its roots are extremely deep—deeper even than our own rootedness.
(The author is a journalist.)