It was supposed to be just another ordinary day. I remember packing my humble bundle of expectations, the fabric of my bag familiar beneath my fingers, as I prepared for the spiritual gathering. Like clockwork, every day at 4pm, a specific location became a magnet calling in girls and boys of all ages for what we were told was ‘divine purification’.

The car ride was intense just as my heartbeat in the moment as something felt off. Honk. The sharp sound of the horn brought me back to reality. I instinctively pressed a hand over my heart, fearful that it was finally time to let myself feel the truth I had been terrified to breathe for years.

The Smile and the Script

Why are you so calm? She asked. One of the participants stood before me, entirely oblivious to the roaring sentiments crashing inside me. She reached out, shaking my arm and offered me a forged smile that made me do the same. On that day, the veil didn’t just completely slip; it shredded to pieces.

We were made to believe that our self-worth was attached to being present in the institution, making the cost of leaving feel like a total loss.

How did this happen? I wondered, the thoughts racing like a fever. How could I have been so blind? When did the benefit become a betrayal?

I looked toward the stage and saw him come in; all jolly and gay ready to present his script and make us his fans time and again. I felt suspended in time, waiting for reality to hit me in the face with full force. Wasn’t religious freedom designed to protect conscience, and here I was losing mine.

The air in the room grew heavy. I was made to stand, a public spectacle, and recount the details of my dysfunctional family and how isolation from them was my only escape.

At that exact moment, the clock struck 6.

Panic flared. I was late for home. But then came the ‘divine intervention’ from the high-control group leader. His voice cold, cutting through my anxiety: “Is going back home more important than this gathering? The Lord dwells here and you want out?”

I went numb. I knew I was needed at home, yet this man was weaponizing divine to keep me from going. I sat there frozen, the image of my sick father and anxious mother flashing in my mind. I felt like a dumb toy; unmoving, waiting for its batteries to be charged again so it could function.

The psychological toll was real and exhausting. In that place, a natural response to something ‘wrong’ was treated as a crime. It created waves of self-doubt so thick I began fearing religious symbols or people; they were triggers packed with the trauma of that language. To this day, the shock of it hasn’t diminished.

After I finally decided to let go, their mask of ‘Godliness’ dropped entirely. Their new motto for me was clear: Curse her. Harass her. Make her suicidal for not believing in their version of the truth.

Perhaps this was their way of maintaining their own comfort at the cost of my truth. My only crime was noticing the gap between what was said and what was actually done. I realized then that the cost of thinking for me was higher than the cost of staying silent. Being naive wasn’t a flaw; it was a testament to my capacity for trust which they exploited exceptionally well.

I remember the notifications, the endless calls and my own screams. My family was there, finally, consoling me as I told my father, “I can’t take this anymore.” These people had declared me an enemy. They were attempting an ‘emotional execution’ because I refused to walk their path of secret persecution and duplicity.

It always came back to that small house with a large flood of people. Same time. Same routine.

‘A divine reward is in line.’ That’s what Z used to tell us and we listened as if the Lord had personally sent him to deliver the message.

We were told that being in the physical proximity of ‘Z’ was a standard blessing. Yet in the same breath we were taught free-mixing was a crime. How did that make sense to me in the moment and after realization made me feel like burning my body? It was mental warfare.

The Blood and the Silence

I remember a moment of pure horror. Someone was hurt.

“His eye is bleeding! Someone please take him to the hospital. He might lose his life.”

“Shhhhhh! don’t speak like that. This is meant to be!”

The one who had just been hit was the one justifying the violence as “divine intervention.” The unchecked aggression and the silence of the onlookers were too much to witness. This was brainwashing in its purest form where mental, emotional and physical abuse was rebranded as “godly”.

We had to ask permission for everything. Can I use the restroom? Can I call home? Can I breathe? These simple needs carried heavy psychological consequences. It was coercive control, draining individuals of their will and filling them with a false agenda of ‘divine cleansing.’

Such institutions ideally act as support systems that lighten one’s mental and emotional load rather than adding unnecessary burdens and rigid complexities. True spiritual progress is marked by an increase in clarity, freedom and well being. If an environment begins to foster the opposite, it is drifting from its original purpose.

These spaces are built to be cradles of spiritual liberation, places where the soul can breathe. Instead it led to the erasure of my intuition. It made me doubt the people closest to me. Framing lies to your family was deemed as a ‘necessary sacrifice’ for a higher calling. My mind became a game of if’s, how’s and why’s. I was trapped, no longer knowing right from wrong.

This betrayal was not just spiritual; it was deeply personal and hypocritical. In this place your thoughts were not only considered unethical but were nominated as ‘lack of faith.’

The whole propaganda is often invisible when you are already in the cycle. With your external support systems cut off, you are made to rely only on them as the sole provider of ultimate truths. The guise of ‘doing it for God’ keeps you cautious about asking the right questions to the wrong people.

The Ultimate Guardian

I look back now and cannot believe I lost years of my life to this horror. I believed it was for good. I stayed in a place where sanctity was twisted to justify the unjustifiable. The sheer weight of an entire ocean of people making you doubt your own sanity is enough to freeze any conscience.

But now, silence is no longer an option.

I have spoken out in every possible way and this story is one of them. I carry the weight of what happened not as a burden of guilt; but as a testament to the fact that I survived the worst. Leaving that trauma where it belongs, in the past, is the most courageous thing I have ever done.

One should remain the ultimate guardian of their own peace, ensuring that their involvement in whatever they pursue consistently enriches their life rather than complicating it.

© Greater Kashmir