The Unseen Faith that Carries Us Home

On a chilly November morning, with the cabin lights fading for takeoff, a plane filled with tired travellers became the setting for a quietly profound act. A gentleman, flecked with grey and forehead soft with contemplation on seat 13B, unlocked his phone. He swiped past the emblems of modern life—social media, work emails, reminders, travel apps—to rest his finger on an icon: Ganesha, the elephant-headed god of new beginnings. In that moment, screens and signals receded; he held the phone aloft, touching it to his brow three times with unspoken dignity. In the hush before wheels left the Tarmac, ancient faith condensed onto a pane of glass.

When the flight kissed the ground, he repeated the gesture, gratitude and relief mingling quietly for having crossed yet another invisible line. 

Across the tarmac and upon picking up their hand baggage, a group of thirty pilgrims—faces marked by sun, age, and the endurance of hope—wrapped up their own silent preparations. 

Prayer books swaddled in silk hung from hands worn by life, their wrinkles and faith that counted heartbeats and whispered intentions, and careful fingers inventoried suitcases filled as much with longing as clothing. Their journey stretched past this city, onward to Mecca, guided not by maps but by the invisible coordinates of faith.

Here, rituals disguised as habits—digital and physical—flourish amid arrivals and departures. The microcosm of existence unravels in stringing together a virtual aarti in family WhatsApp groups, hanging green chilies and lemons below the bonnet in cars, and reciting quiet thanks before stepping off a train or plane. Sometimes it is a ritual so soft it escapes notice—sometimes, as visible as the earnest anxiety worn by parents or the curious eyes of their children.

Faith as Daily Fabric
Faith does not wait for easy explanations or for temple bells to ring. For many Indians, and indeed for millions worldwide, it marks ordinary occasions with extraordinary power. In the India of the 1980s and 90s, departure was turned meaningful through rites: lemons would be crush-rolled beneath car tires before a big journey, while chillies and lemons dangled from hoods like half-mystical guardians against risk. Questions from children—“Why do we do this?”—would be met with the gentle shrug: “Aisa hi hota hai.” That’s just the way it is.

The science of ritual, tested by psychology and neuroscience, now admits what tradition has long insisted upon. Repetitive, purposeful acts, whether grounded in faith or rooted in family myth, ease anxiety and turn fear into manageable rhythm. A hand pressed to a brow, a prayer whispered while waiting for a test result or before stepping out into thronged streets—each transforms the ephemeral moment into something memorable and shared. Across cultures, the details differ: some cross themselves, touch mezuzahs, or bow to temple gates. The longing—the need to put uncertainty to rest—remains the same.

Technology has only heightened faith’s reach, not replaced it. Ganesha now sits among app icons, and blessings zip through fiber optic cables just as easily as they are spoken at dawn on a temple ghat. Pilgrimages are organised on travel platforms, virtual poojas booked online, and digital communities offer solidarity through hashtags, prayers, and well-wishes. Over half of Indian holidays now have some religious or spiritual intent, blurring boundaries between leisure and the sacred.

The Unbroken Thread
Even as parents puzzle over skeptical Gen Z and Gen Alpha kids challenging old customs, faith persists. Some explain with stories of ancestors, others with science, and often with a simple “It’s just the way things are.” Children may scoff, or they may absorb the gestures, reinterpreting them for a digital age: festival greetings morph into emoji chains, midnight WhatsApp wishes replace lamps, and digital aartis cross time zones in seconds. As faith adapts, it continues to serve its old purposes—the calming of dread, the formation of community, the offering up of hope.

Jose Salvador Alvarenga embarked on a fishing trip from Mexico in December 2012 but was blown off course by a storm. After his young companion died early in the journey, Alvarenga survived alone for approximately 14 months adrift in the Pacific Ocean. Relying on raw fish, birds, and rainwater, he endured extreme deprivation and isolation. His faith and hope sustained him through this ordeal. Finally, on January 30, 2014, he washed ashore in the Marshall Islands, concluding an astonishing journey of survival across thousands of miles. His story exemplifies resilience and the human capacity to find strength in faith under uncertain conditions too.

The digital revolution has not diluted ritual—it has rendered it omnipresent. WhatsApp groups pulse with morning blessings, Instagram becomes an altar of visual prayers, and screens glow with icons that channel anxiety into something less lonely. Ritual, whether ancient or recently invented, continues to convert unpredictability into meaning. When children ask for explanations, elders may try, or they may simply offer “Aisa hi hota hai.”

In time, perhaps, the comfort is explanation enough.

So faith, in its evolution, remains a human constant and a daily miracle. It recognises the fragility beneath ambition, the longing beneath routine, and the need for assurance before every journey—physical or emotional. The rituals, digitised yet unchanged at their heart, remind us that we travel not only across geography, but through the landscapes of hope, fear, and belonging.

In the end, faith is less a series of answers than a process of being human. It allows us to name what lies ahead, to touch and soothe what is inside, and to keep the story unfolding—quietly, unbroken, across generations and technologies. 

The microcosm of existence will always hum with faith, weaving its threads into moments unnoticed: the silent prayers, the ritual touch of a phone, the brief pause before stepping from.

The house and the gentle, inherited words—“Aisa hi hota hai”—that promise the journey, like the story, continues on and on.