As I stepped out through that mythical door, I was no longer a believer. I was a seeker, says the author.

An impressionable mind at the crossroads of faith, lost between two tenets... 
A sage whose replies beget more questions than answers... 
And a faith that levitates the more you prostrate...

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An otherwise non-descript, oak-crafted gate—its wood having braved the vagaries of seasons for millennia—was still crisp enough to creak every time a believer entered. Intricately carved metalwork—dusted, though not rusted—adorned the rickety frame. A solemn lattice motif stood guard, as if preserving centuries of memory buried beneath. 

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A pair of brass handles hung from knobs in the shape of ferocious lions—reminders of our ancient kinship with the Singh, the undisputed king of the jungle. The gate stood slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of sunlight to slip inside, as though testifying to the sanctity within. With one door pulled inward and the other angled outward, the idiosyncratic arrangement made the gate feel like a statement—something a veteran like Dan Brown might find muse-worthy, yet far beyond the grasp of an average teenage girl like me. 

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This was the enchanting entrance to the mythical Hari Hara temple, nestled in the ancient town of Odisha. As our family stepped inside, a gaunt-faced Brahmin, a chandan tilak gracing his forehead, greeted us. 

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"Let me usher you to the sanctum sanctorum." 

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He rubbed a chandan-smeared finger along the sacred thread draped across his emaciated torso. 

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With incense smoke billowing all around, colossal walls adorned with divine murals, and a cupola that soared toward infinity and beyond, the whole vignette felt utterly surreal. 

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While the holy man captivated my parents with trivia and tales, I trailed behind them through arterial aisles, imagining the magic of a place that had drawn pilgrims for eons. Through a series of arcades flanking either side, we were led to a cul-de-sac, where an awe-inspiring, gilded deity stood—decked in flowers—while a battery of Brahmins performed ablutions in perfect harmony. 

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"Welcome to the world of Dharma," his baritone voice echoed, resonating with the symphony of mantra chanting that filled the enclosure. 

"Here, you shall serve what you seek to preserve." 

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My parents followed the rituals as instructed. 

"You, please follow the decorum," they reprimanded gently, while offering buttermilk and betel leaves to the deity. 

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I could feel immense energy in the room, yet my young mind struggled to sync with the transcendental tenor reverberating through that sacred space. 

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As we stepped out of the hallowed turf, the sudden sounds of animals startled me—growls, squeals, flutters. Sensing my curiosity, the priest offered a detour to the temple’s backyard. 

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There were rats riding cats, and cats chasing dogs. Pigeons engaged in dogfights, and bats hung in clumps away from the light. 

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"You must be wondering how such diverse fauna thrive in a temple," he remarked, almost reading my thoughts. 

"They’ve chosen this place to atone for the sins of their previous birth." 

At his words, my eyes narrowed—trying to physically join the dots, to connect ritual with consequence. 

"Pardon me for being audacious… If ritualism is the bedrock of our Dharma—then what, pray, is this penitentiary business?"

My words were as scattered as my thoughts. 

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"Welcome to the world of Karma. Here, you shall be served what you preserved." 

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The old man pontificated, the wrinkles on his forehead flashing like verses in a forgotten language—waiting for some hieroglyphist to decipher them. 

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As we began walking back toward the gate, I asked my parents to slow down. I was utterly lost—adrift in a crowd of devotees, and perhaps, within myself. 

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"Life offers no one-point solution. It is every soul’s own journey. There is no bespoke path. You must find your own." 

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The holy man whispered. 

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I turned to thank him for his kindness—but there were only faint footsteps, the rustle of robes, and the lingering scent of chandan…

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As if he had moved on to baptise another soul... 
Or perhaps... he was never there at all. 

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As I stepped out through that mythical door, I was no longer a believer. 
I was a seeker.