For the last 22 years, I’ve made it a strict personal rule:
No malls on weekends. No temples on Tuesdays, Fridays, or festival days.
Not because I hate shopping or have a problem with God. I have a problem with Indians in crowds.
It’s fascinating—and frustrating—how a country with a population of 1.4 billion still hasn’t figured out how to walk properly in a crowded place. Or worse, how to stand still without blocking an entire pathway.
In a mall on a Sunday, you’ll find groups of people walking five-abreast like they’re on a leisurely village stroll, stopping mid-escalator to check their phones or discuss dinner plans. No sense of lane discipline, no regard for who’s behind them. Everyone seems to think the entire space is their drawing room.
Temples are even more intense. On a regular day, there’s sanctity, peace, and maybe a line that moves. But walk in on a Friday or a festival, and suddenly devotion becomes a rugby match. Elbows fly, queues dissolve, and someone’s idea of spiritual closeness involves shoving you directly into the sanctum while chanting mantras like a war cry.
And don’t even get me started on those who insist on standing right at the entrance, either blessing themselves dramatically or having long conversations with others, completely unaware that they’ve become human barricades.
So, I adapted.
I shop on Monday mornings.
I visit temples on silent afternoons when even the priests are half-asleep.
And in the process, I’ve discovered a new kind of devotion: devotion to sanity.
It’s not that I’m antisocial. I just believe public places are meant to be shared, not seized.
Call it a rant, call it a cultural observation—but if you’ve ever stood trapped behind a group blocking an escalator or been nearly crushed while offering a coconut to the deity, you’ll know what I mean.