The Absurdity of Divine

“One-time offer! Mercy and wishes fulfilled for new joiners!”

Sounds like your average telecom ad, right? Well, buckle up, because this time, it’s not Airtel or Jio – it’s the Gods themselves. Or at least, that’s what their freelance agents claimed. Who knew divinity needed door-to-door sales?

India, the land of spirituality, where the Gods outnumber the population (or so it seems). Being born in India, the spiritual equivalent of a shopping mall with infinite franchises. I decided to put my customer acquisition expertise to divine use. The goal was simple: find the deity with the best connectivity and lowest user traffic. Like choosing a gym membership, but for the soul. With a million deities to choose from, I thought picking the right one would be as easy as ordering biryani on Swiggy. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

Born a Hindu, I had a buffet of Gods to choose from – Shiva, Vishnu, Durga, Ganesh, and a few thousand others whose names I couldn’t pronounce. With a million gods and counting (we lost track somewhere around the Vedic period), you’d think choice would be easy? It’s like trying to pick a Netflix show – too many options, and you end up watching none.

The market has essentially consolidated into two major players: Team Shiva and Team Vishnu, like a celestial Marvel vs DC scenario.

After some deep contemplation (and a few Instagram scrolls), I realized the divine market had been outsourced. The Gods seemed to have taken a sabbatical, leaving their duties to self-proclaimed Godmen. These spiritual CEOs offer enlightenment through everything from blankets that cured diseases, chits that solved problems, and breath so potent it could turn water into tonic. But let’s be real: the queues to these Godmen were longer than the line for free biryani at a political rally. Their waiting lists are longer than iPhone launch queues. Plus, their rates would make even premium Netflix subscriptions look charitable.

So, I decided to explore other options.

Christianity seemed promising – one God, straightforward messaging

A friend took me to a church, pointed at a cross, and said, “Pray, my friend. He hears you.” I stared at the cross, half-expecting the man on it to whisper, “Help me, I’m stuck.” But instead, a loud “Hallelujah!” echoed through the room. A man in white robes entered, microphone in hand. I turned to my friend and enquired about this enigmatic entry

“He’s the Father,” my friend explained about the priest.

“But isn’t Jesus the Father?”

“Well, yes…”

“So he’s Jesus’s father?”

“No, he’s…”

My friend gave me a look that said, “Don’t overthink it.” But overthinking is my superpower.

I left before this turned into a celestial family tree discussion that would put “Game of Thrones” to shame.

On the way I kept thinking about it. A father talking to another father? That’s not divine intervention – that’s family therapy. Thank God I left before the sermon could trigger my daddy issues.

I bumped into Salim on the way, he was an old school friend and a devout follower of another faith. Back in school, Salim was the guy who’d always ask, “Is this halal?” before doing anything. I asked him if his faith had updated its list of permissible things. He sighed and said, “Bro, we’re evolving. New things pop up every day – crypto, AI, avocado toast. We’re working on it.” I realized his God was already overworked, and adding my problems to His divine to-do list would be unfair. Imagine God as a software developer, pushing updates to the divine repository. “Error 404: Permission not found.”

Finally, exhausted and spiritually unemployed, I wandered into a religious fair. Defeated but not deterred, I wandered to a mela ground. The air was thick with the smell of fried snacks and the sound of loudspeakers. A massive hoarding greeted me: “Ghar Wapsi Abhiyan: One-time offer for new believers! Mercy and wishes fulfilled!”

Finally, a sign from the heavens! Or was it a political campaign? The line between spirituality and politics in India is thinner than a wafer biscuit. A man in orange robes stood at the entrance, smiling like he’d just closed a billion-dollar deal. Behind him, posters of a leading politician smiled back, as if to say, “Welcome home, sinner.”

The crowd swarmed like bees to honey, and the man in orange roared:

“One-time offer! Mercy and wishes fulfilled for new joiners! Limited slots available!”

It hit me then: I’d been swinging from one God to another, hoping for a direct connection. But in this divine marketplace, even the Gods had gone corporate. Religion had become the ultimate subscription service. Premium packages, limited-time offers, customer retention programs, and even win-back campaigns. The only difference? You can’t really unsubscribe, and the terms and conditions are eternally binding.

In a world where even spirituality is commodified, we’re all just customers in the grand bazaar of faith. Whether it’s a telecom ad or a divine offer, the pitch is the same: *Join us, and your problems will vanish!* But the truth is, no God – or Godman – can solve our problems with a blanket, a chit, or a loud “Hallelujah.” I realized I’d have to keep hopping from one divine subscription to another, hoping to get that direct line to the cosmic customer service. Much like my regular life – always searching for the best deal, never quite satisfied with the current plan.

The real miracle lies in finding peace within ourselves, without waiting for a divine customer care executive to pick up the call.

So, the next time you hear a “one-time offer” from the heavens, remember: the Gods may be many, but the queue is endless. And if all else fails, there’s always chai and samosas at the mela.

*Disclaimer: No Gods were harmed in the making of this satire. But a few Godmen might be feeling a little called out.