I have always considered myself a temple-goer. That description may seem inadequate, for my journeys have taken me from the southern tip of the subcontinent to the Himalayan foothills, tracing not merely the geography of India but also the many strands of its spiritual imagination.

I have stood in awe inside the famed Ramanathaswamy Temple at Rameshwaram, whose endless corridors seem to carry echoes of centuries of footsteps. I have craned my neck to behold the Shankaracharya Temple perched high above Srinagar, a solitary sentinel above the Dal Lake.

As a toddler, I have visited the gold-laden sanctum of Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple in Thiruvananthapuram, a place where even the shadows seem to glitter, and joined the ocean of humanity climbing the seven hills to seek darshan at Balaji's abode in Tirupati.

My journeys have taken me to the Krishna Janmabhoomi temple in Mathura, to the Ghats of Varanasi, where Shiva is said to whisper liberation into the ears of those who breathe their last, and to the rebuilt Somnath temple, a monument to resilience.

My faith-driven wanderings were not limited to India alone. I have stood before a Krishna temple in Houston, wondering at the universality of devotion, and visited the BAPS temple in Dubai, where expatriate spirituality finds architectural expression. And yes, most recently, I walked into the Ram Temple at Ayodhya — a place that now symbolises, for many, the triumph of faith, and for others, the complexities of history.

Does all this make me a polytheist? The answer is simple: no. I believe in one God, who manifested Himself in Jesus Christ and who remains eternally present as the Holy Spirit. My faith in Christ is unshaken, but it does not make me blind to the divine spark that millions perceive differently.

How, then, do I reconcile my temple visits with my Christian faith? Easily. I respect all faiths. When I hear a Vedic chant, I am moved no differently than when I hear a soul-stirring Christian hymn like Amazing Grace. The form may differ, but the yearning for the divine is the same. Devotion, after all, speaks one universal language — sincerity.

My journeys have not been confined to temples. I can write at length about the mosques I have visited — in India, Pakistan, the UAE, Brunei, Turkey and elsewhere — each with its own architecture, its own cadence of prayer.

I have stood spellbound inside the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore and heard the call to prayer echo through the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Likewise, I have visited almost every major Sikh gurdwara — from Amritsar to Anandpur Sahib — except the Nanded Sahib in Maharashtra, which remains on my wish list. Each of these experiences merits a separate account, and if the occasion permits, I shall one day write about them fully.

About twenty years ago, a colleague from the South — a gentle, soft-spoken man — and his wife approached me with a request. They wished to visit the Shri Mata Vaishno Devi shrine at Katra to offer thanks. After years of longing, they had finally been blessed with a daughter, and they wanted to express their gratitude to the Goddess. Their story stirred something within me. I, too, felt an urge to climb that revered hill and seek the darshan that draws millions every year.

I had, of course, read much about the transformation of the shrine under Jagmohan, when he served as Governor of Jammu and Kashmir. Whatever one may say of his excesses during the Emergency — when he functioned as Sanjay Gandhi's unflinching enforcer — he redeemed himself in the eyes of many through his exemplary administration of the Vaishno Devi shrine.

He modernised the facilities, streamlined the trekking path, and ensured that the temple became one of the best-managed pilgrim destinations in the country. His legacy at the shrine remains far more enduring than his notoriety during the Emergency years.

So it was decided: Betty and I would accompany my colleague and his wife to Katra. All of us were crammed into my official Ambassador car, an automobile that could withstand any journey, provided one did not ask too much of its air-conditioning system. The road trip itself was an adventure — five adults, bags of eatables, and faith enough to power the engine.

We checked into a modest guesthouse, slept early, and set out before dawn with wooden sticks, the kind pilgrims have relied on for centuries. We walked slowly, resting often, enjoying the cool mountain air that grows rarer as the sun climbs. The path was crowded, as expected, but alive with energy.

Many chose more comfortable alternatives — horseback rides, palanquins, even helicopter services. I observed with amusement that some pilgrims who claimed they wanted to "purify the soul through austerity" looked particularly relieved when mounted safely atop a pony. The chopper passengers, meanwhile, reached the top looking as fresh as morning flowers while we, who chose to walk, resembled wilted marigolds. Faith may move mountains, but fatigue shows up on the face.

As we approached the shrine, sombre news awaited us. A pilgrim from Maharashtra had collapsed after reaching the temple and passed away before medical assistance could reach him. There was something deeply poignant about it — he had made the arduous climb, perhaps prayed all through the way, and just when he reached the abode of the Goddess, the journey of his life ended.

My colleague's wife, herself from the family of Thyagaraja, one of the greatest Carnatic musicians, remarked that he was fortunate to die in the lap of the Goddess, at the very place where his faith had led him. Her tone was reflective, not dramatic — as if she were stating a truth long known to believers. For those who see divinity in everything, such endings appear not tragic but blessed.

We joined the long queue leading to the sanctum. My colleague and his family, having completed their darshan earlier, waited outside for us. He warned me, "You won't get even half a minute. Look straight. The deity is almost on the wall. And don't linger — the police won't allow it." His advice was practical, born of experience. The system is designed to keep the line moving: faith has no expiry date, but time slots do.

Yet, when my turn came, those few seconds felt precious — a moment of stillness amid a river of humanity. The descent was naturally easier, and midway through it, my phone rang. To my astonishment, it was the then CBI chief calling to apologise profusely for the ordeal his organisation had caused a relative of mine — a matter I had written about in these very columns. His call was unexpected, and his tone genuinely contrite.

My colleague's wife, ever alert to signs of grace, immediately attributed the call to the blessings of Mata Vaishno Devi. Those who believe deeply look for validations of their faith in the smallest details, and who am I to question their interpretations?

On returning to Chandigarh, I wrote a cover story for the Sunday Magazine of The Tribune about our visit. That article was my first personal connection with Katra — a bond that has now resurfaced forcefully due to a controversy that has left me both surprised and saddened.

A few days ago, I learnt of an uproar surrounding the Vaishno Devi Temple — not about the shrine itself but about the Shri Mata Vaishno Devi Institute of Medical Excellence. And thus the old adage "One cannot have the cake and eat it too" came unbidden to my mind. The saying simply means that you cannot enjoy the benefits of two mutually incompatible choices at the same time. You cannot demand modernity and cling to prejudice; you cannot claim fairness while insisting on privilege.

This contradiction lies at the heart of the latest dispute. In the maiden batch of 50 MBBS students admitted to the medical college, 42 are Muslims, and eight are Hindus — all from the Jammu region. Certain Hindu organisations have protested, claiming that since the institution owes its existence to the offerings of Vaishno Devi devotees, its admissions should reflect Hindu identity.

This argument collapses on scrutiny. The college did not emerge overnight from a donation box. It exists because of legislation passed by the Jammu and Kashmir Assembly, which explicitly mandates merit-based admissions. Like every medical college in India, it is bound by the NEET system — a national examination designed to remove exactly the kind of bias the protesters now demand.

Yes, 85% of the seats are reserved for students from Jammu and Kashmir. But nowhere — not even between the commas and full stops of the Act — does it say that admissions may be reshaped to favour a particular religious group. The law does not bend to sentiment, no matter how loudly expressed.

The claim that the college was built solely from pilgrims' offerings is factually wrong. The Central and state governments have invested far more in the overall development of the shrine and its associated institutions. Highways, railway lines, electrification — these were not built by devotees' coins. Katra today is connected to the rest of India by a network of trains and roads that owe their existence to public funds, not temple donations.

It is also worth noting that the Shrine Board is chaired not by a mahant or a priest, but by the Governor of the state. If the Governor happens to be a non-Hindu, he cannot chair it, but otherwise, the administration is fully secular.

I recall the time when General SK Sinha was the Governor. That year, no natural ice-lingam formed at Amarnath — a phenomenon entirely governed by nature. Undeterred, someone transported blocks of ice from Jammu to fashion an artificial lingam. The charade might have succeeded had a Press photographer not captured a close-up revealing the palm marks of the labourer who moulded it. If nothing else, Indian religiosity is occasionally enlivened by unintended comedy.

To now argue that only vegetarians should be admitted to the medical college — because allegedly "non-vegetarian food is unacceptable to Mata Vaishno Devi" — is to descend into the absurd. If dietary practices are to determine eligibility, where will it end? Tomorrow, someone may say that the medical college should dissect only Hindu cadavers and treat only Hindu patients. That logic leads straight to madness.

Chief Minister Omar Abdullah has rightly pointed out that the admission list was prepared strictly according to the law. He added that if the Supreme Court ordered a revision, the government would naturally comply — which is how a constitutional democracy functions. The rule of law must prevail, not the rule of sentiment.

A BJP leader has remarked that if the promoters had instead established an Ayurvedic college or an institution dedicated to Sanatana Dharma, this "problem" would not have arisen. Perhaps. But a medical college is not a religious gurukul; it must operate within the legal, regulatory and ethical frameworks that govern medical education in the country. Cultural institutions may follow their own rules, but professional ones cannot.

For every medical college where minority students are in the majority, there are hundreds where the demographic is overwhelmingly Hindu. Yet no Muslim organisation campaigns for proportional representation based on religious identity there. The principle must remain consistent: merit alone should determine admission.

It is a pity — and a dangerous one — that such illiberal demands are voiced by those who claim to represent development and national progress. The choice before us is stark. Either we uphold merit and the rule of law, or we surrender to sectarian impulses. One cannot do both. One cannot have the cake and eat it too.

Imagine a nation where hospitals are segregated by religion — Hindu hospitals, Muslim hospitals, Christian hospitals, Sikh hospitals. Imagine doctors taking the Hippocratic Oath with a religious qualifier attached. Imagine ambulances turning away patients of the "wrong" faith. The very thought is horrifying. Why then is the Prime Minister silent on this issue? Why does he not say, firmly and clearly, that enough is enough?

In conclusion, the controversy surrounding the Vaishno Devi Medical College is not merely about admissions. It is about the direction in which our society is headed. Are we to be governed by laws or by loudness? By fairness or by prejudice? By the Constitution or by sectarian sentiment? The answer will determine not just the fate of one medical college but the health of the nation itself.

For my part, I return to the Goddess of Katra — not the one imagined by zealots, but the one who blesses all who climb her mountain, regardless of caste or creed. Her shrine draws millions because it stands for hope, not hatred; devotion, not division. That is the India I believe in — and the India we must protect.