Dear Mama,

I promise I recited Navakar Mantra as much as I could when I was younger. I promise it was not my fault if I forgot to that day. I was scared my friends would make fun of me at sleepovers if I had to do a whole puja before eating breakfast with them. Sometimes I felt a pit of guilt in my stomach looking down at the small idol of Lord Mahavir hanging from my chain, near my heart, which you and Nani spent hours doing puja for.

“Mahavir Bhagwan, bless Atishay with all the power and strength he may ever need,” Nani would say. Then, like you had taught me, I would bend down and touch her feet to take her blessings. I would often remember this time and then close my eyes and begin chanting to myself. I would then say to myself that since I had prayed that day, Mahavir Bhagwan would have to reward me with something. Once, you told me a story about how there was a man who did terrible deeds in his life. He had built up so much of this so-called “karma” that in his next life, he was reborn as a poison ivy plant. I didn’t understand how that was possible.

Once, around Diwali time in school, every Indian kid’s wrist had a red Moli tied around it. I told all my white friends that it was just a string that Moms gave to their kids for Diwali as a sign of love. I was finally old enough for you to explain why we celebrate Diwali in the first place. I wish you had told me earlier. When dismissal time came, I walked through the school bus and sat down next to Arya, trying to hide the kurta from him in my bag. I asked him when they were going to the mandir to do the puja to celebrate Mahavir’s nirvana. He looked at me, his eyebrows scrunched, and asked, “Who is Mahavir? Is he some sort of God or something?”

I couldn’t believe it. Do you remember how I came home and demanded answers from you? I threw my backpack into your arms at the bus stop and ran home, up to my room. I looked through the window back at you. I think now is a good time to say I am sorry. I am sorry for the looks you had to get from the other white moms waiting for their kids. I am sorry for bunching up my kurta in my backpack, which you pulled out later and made the smile on your face slowly fade away. I couldn’t figure it out. Even though we celebrated Diwali, how was it that half the other brown kids had no other idea who Mahavir was? I hated how I was different. Even different than Arya, who came to school every day with a tilak on his forehead from the mandir. I would always wash my tilak off right after we left the mandir and you and Papa would never say anything. I wonder if you even noticed in the first place.

Then, the first time I had gone to Roshan’s house, I noticed a picture of Jesus hanging in his living room. I sat on the couch, trying to focus on Aladdin, eating my popcorn. But I just couldn’t help thinking about it. He had brown skin too. Then, I glanced at his wrist. He had a Moli tied too. How could Roshan follow the same religion as Josh and Sebastian and Jason, but still have a Moli? So, I asked Sandhya Aunty why she had a picture of Jesus in her house. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Roshan hiding his chuckle while making eye contact with Arya in response. I didn’t talk to Roshan again until next year.

You then told me, that in fact, it was okay to be different. I was only nine after all. I told you about my experience with Arya and asked you how he didn’t know who Mahavir was. That’s when consoled me and reminded me that there was so much about us which we would learn with time. We have a unique, four-letter last name that meant we were part of a whole different religion: Jainism. That we followed a different religion than Arya, who was a Hindu.

When my curiosity and confusion filled your heart, you told me, “Did you know Beta, at one point in India, if we told anyone we were Jain, we would immediately be the most peaceful people in their eyes. They knew that we would only eat vegetarian food. They knew that we would never lie or cheat. It is what the 24 Tirthankaras, including Mahavir, taught us.”

Whenever now I talk about religion, I remove the word “sect” from my descriptions. I think now it is time to thank you. Thank you for understanding my confusion. Thank you for giving me the ability to finally tell my friends that Jainism is not just another “branch” of Hinduism. Thank you for giving me the confidence to be myself without worrying what others would think of me.

That pit of guilt in my stomach shows up from time to time. Maybe things would be different if I grew up in India like you, where my next-door neighbor would also be a Jain. Or maybe the reward that Mahavir gave us (even though you told me there was no such thing as a reward for praying) was the opportunity to find my identity growing up with such a diverse group of friends.

When someone asks me to go out for breakfast now, I have learned to tell them to just wait two minutes for me to finish chanting Navakar Mantra.

Love you long time,

Atishay