An Introduction
Under this general title, Witnessing, I am going to share a few case studies that illustrate a thought or theory I developed in response to a question from a Bhakta. This thought did not emerge from an outsider’s objective study, nor from a sympathetic Along sider’s perspective of various Hindu Bhaktas or Hindu “converts.” Rather, it arose from the lived, personal experience of an insider—my own—and in most cases, I personally witnessed what I now share.
Elsewhere, I have expressed a similar idea in two parts, in response to a comparable question from another Bhakta.1 Therefore, in these articles, which will unfold across multiple parts with various case studies, you may find certain thoughts repeated. These repetitions are intentional and integral to the narrative, though they will need to be compiled and edited into a single chapter for my book, Living Dialogue, which is still in draft form.
Instead of waiting for a future that may never culminate in a completed manuscript, I have decided to publish these reflections on my blog. Anyone interested in turning them into a separate book or booklet is welcome to do so—or I might take it up myself when time permits. For now, here are a few case studies. I have chosen not to include my own story, as it has already been shared in several places across my blog and books. Here, I will focus solely on the real stories of other Bhaktas.
Part 1: Quiet Bhakti in Hindu Families
Many Hindu bhaktas live out their devotion to the Lord without ever telling their family or friends about it. This is not something new. I met several such bhaktas nearly 35 years ago in different parts of Tamil Nadu. Some of them had been following the Lord for years without ever publicly identifying as “Christians.” I later learned that Dr. Herbert Hoefer had done some serious research on this same subject and published his findings in a book called Churchless Christianity. I was deeply moved when I read it.2
One of the main reasons these bhaktas stay silent is because of the stigma that surrounds the word “Christian,” especially in connection with the idea of “conversion.” For most Hindus, the moment they hear these terms, all kinds of fears and judgments rise up—losing caste, bringing shame to the family, betraying tradition, or even falling under “Western influence.” That label becomes heavier than their devotion itself.
But not every bhakta’s situation is the same. That’s why I hesitate to give one general answer for everyone. Each case must be handled carefully and personally. As Dr. Hoefer recorded in his book, referring one such ‘secret Christian’ told him:
The correct description of the religious reality, at least as in Madras City, is not that Christianity is a Harijan religion but a Harijan church’, says Dr. Hoefer. 3
That one line reveals the deep, lingering effects of caste-based untouchability in our society. Mahatma Gandhi wrestled with this issue all his life. He tried to reform society through what he called “Harijan upliftment,” yet he also supported the varnashrama dharma. His approach was not simple, and neither is ours. Gandhi himself admitted that even a social reformer might not eat with or marry into a Dalit family—and still be seen as a genuine reformer. That was the social reality he worked within.4
In today’s India, religion has become politicized. Just as race is used politically in the West, caste and religion are now used the same way here. Political leaders speak of equality, but in practice, caste is still communalized and used for votes. In such an environment, no wonder the moment a Hindu uses the word “Jesus,” it gets misunderstood.
So even if a sincere bhakta wants to speak about the Lord using contextual terms like Muktinath, Muktiveda, Maha Prasad, Deeksha, or mandali, their family members still don’t understand. They think it’s either some new Christian trick or simply a personal religious fancy. And once their hearts close, it becomes impossible to explain.
That’s where I want to pause this part. Because for many, this is the turning point—the moment they decide: “It’s better I don’t say anything. Let me just walk my path quietly.” And I understand why they do that.
Part 2: Silent Sons and Daughters
For many of us, even if we have never looked down upon the Church or Christians, the words “conversion” and “Christian” still carry a weight that feels unnecessary. That label—whether others put it on us or we accidentally accept it ourselves—ends up becoming a burden we didn’t ask for. Even with all our efforts to use Indian words like Muktinath and Muktiveda, the moment we mention the name “Jesus,” most of our relatives just shut down.
It doesn’t help that we ourselves, after all these years, still feel uneasy using words like Muktinath or Muktiveda. So we fall back into using the more familiar Christian terms, but then that only confirms their worst fears: “Ah, so you really have converted.” The truth is far deeper, but how do we explain it?
Let me share something personal. In 2023, my own brother—who knows something about my devotion to the Lord—told me bluntly:
“You became a Christian convert to preach their religion.”
I didn’t argue. I quietly said, “No, I never became a Christian convert.”
What else could I say? Whatever impression he had formed about me decades ago—maybe even forty years back—still stuck stronger in his mind than any recent understanding.
He couldn’t accept that I’m still a Hindu by culture and upbringing, and yet a bhakta of the Lord. In his eyes, I had crossed a line—and no explanation I gave could un-cross it. But I didn’t feel angry. I knew where he was coming from.
This is exactly why so many Hindu bhaktas, like those in Dr. Hoefer’s book, remain silent. They continue in their quiet devotion without ever declaring anything. And it’s not because they’re ashamed of the Lord. It’s because they understand the emotional, social, and spiritual cost their families might have to bear—especially older parents, who may feel confused, betrayed, or even dishonored.
That leads to an important question someone recently asked:
Is it morally necessary to tell your parents what you now believe? Or is it more important to simply be a good son or daughter, especially if you live far away, and just quietly do your duty?
It’s a hard question. And again, I don’t think there is one answer for everyone. Some parents might be mature and open-hearted enough to listen. But in most cases, if they are elderly or sensitive, the shock might hurt more than heal.
That’s why many of us choose the quieter path. We don’t declare. We don’t preach. We simply continue in our bhakti—and quietly do our putra [son] or putri [daughter] dharma.
Part 3: Quiet Bhakti, Deep Witness
For some people, religion is all about identity—belonging to a group, defending that group, and being seen as loyal to it. But bhakti doesn’t work like that. Bhakti is personal. It changes something inside you. It is quiet, and it doesn’t need a platform.
Many of us have seen this firsthand. A man or woman begins to live differently—not with slogans or sermons, but with more peace, more compassion, more simplicity. He doesn’t argue or preach, but there’s something new about him. He’s changed. Some in the family might still suspect him of “changing religion,” but over time, they can’t deny that something good has happened inside.
In fact, many people in our extended families don’t care about our religious beliefs. What they care about is whether we are doing well in life: making money, staying healthy, supporting our families, being “useful” to society. If you are a son or daughter who does these things well, many times that itself is enough. Your inner bhakti may not even need to be explained.
But that doesn’t mean our transformation is only external. In fact, when real bhakti grows within, it slowly affects how we speak, how we handle stress, how we relate to others—even those who hurt us. We may no longer react with anger or pride. We may forgive more easily. That kind of change is rare. It is costly. And it often makes people pause and wonder: “What happened to him? How did he become like this?”
That’s the kind of witness that doesn’t need announcements. It just flows out of who we are becoming.
And if someone asks, “What changed you?”—then yes, we can speak gently and honestly. We don’t have to hide. But neither do we have to “declare” ourselves just for the sake of declaring.
Sometimes silence is the most loving path. Especially when we know our words will not be heard for what they truly mean. In those cases, taking care of our parents, doing our dharma as sons or daughters, and living quietly with devotion may speak louder than anything else.
This is not cowardice. This is wisdom. And above all, it is love.
Witnessing What: Case Studies
He is my Ramachandra
Take for example a real case I encountered. Recently, I visited a Brahmin family where the only son had never openly shared his Bhakti with his family. This son was deeply burdened by his lack of openness about his faith, especially as his parents neared the end of their lives. He asked me, “I have never shared my Bhakti, but I have taken good care of my parents. Now that they are nearing the end, am I not responsible to share my faith with them openly?”
I replied that there was no need to do so at this stage. Imagine the scenario: your father is almost on his deathbed, and your mother is taking care of him. You are in a Western country, only sending money back home, but suddenly, with an evangelical burden, you want to make a public witness. How do you think your parents would react? Will they applaud you for your openness, or will they feel betrayed, wondering why you have been pretending all these years to be a Hindu while secretly being a Christian?
This is where the nuances of family and faith collide. In the case I mentioned, the mother said, without knowing that both of us are Bhaktas of Muktinath, “He is Sri Ramachandra for us.” She spoke of how her son was fully dedicated to taking care of them despite being far away. She knew other families who had children living with their parents but who didn’t care for them as he did. And yet, the question remains: did he do this because he became a Bhakta, or is this simply a reflection of his character, honed through his upbringing and love for his family?
The real impact of the Bhakta, especially in a Hindu context, often lies in actions that cannot be tied to religious identity alone. I’ve seen many Hindus who remain true, faithful, and loving, taking care of their parents out of sheer love and dedication, not because they identified as Bhaktas or followers of any particular faith. The idea that one’s acts of love and care are solely a result of becoming a Bhakta limits the understanding of what faith and service truly are. In my case, I took care of my mother not because I became a Bhakta of the Lord, but because God gave me the opportunity to serve her.
The Christian or evangelical perspective might disagree with this. They might point to verses from various parts of Muktiveda and insist that failing to openly declare one’s faith is a betrayal. They might argue that you should confess your faith openly, especially to your family. But what they fail to understand is the broader context in which we live and serve. As Mukti Veda teaches us, our actions should speak for themselves, and sharing one’s Bhakti doesn’t have to be confined to a single, dramatic moment of declaration.
In my case, all my family members, relatives, and even close friends know that I am a follower of Muktinath. The fact that I chose to care for my parents without expecting any outward acknowledgment of my faith speaks more about my commitment to them and the love I carry within me than any overt display of religion could ever do.
Sometimes, the real impact made by a Bhakta is not visible to everyone, and that’s okay. The quiet, consistent acts of love, service, and dedication are often the truest expressions of faith. It’s not about fitting a formula or meeting someone else’s expectations; it’s about living your truth and fulfilling your duties with love and devotion.
Finally, this Bhakta’s father passed away after being bedridden for a short time due to cancer. Although the treatment was successful initially, he eventually succumbed to the illness. When the news came, the Bhakta immediately rushed back home to be with his mother. He took care of all the necessary rituals and responsibilities according to the Hindu family tradition, without any concern for his Bhakti or his personal faith in the Lord. This act alone had a profound impact, showing his unwavering commitment to his family, culture, and responsibilities.
Insensitive
I also know of another case where a Brahmin boy married a non-Brahmin, and both became converts to Christianity, eventually becoming extreme Pentecostals. When the boy’s father passed away while he was in town, the church leaders told him explicitly that he could not go to see even the dead body of his father or participate in any rituals. They warned that even standing with his mother to share her grief might force him to participate in a ritual, which would be against the will of the Lord Almighty.
The saddest part of such situations—especially in India, and more so in the South, particularly in Tamil Nadu—is that one should never miss the final opportunity to see the face of a deceased parent. Missing a funeral is deeply frowned upon, even though people may choose to skip auspicious occasions like weddings.
When my father passed away, I was in North India. By the time I reached home, three days had passed. A neighbor remarked, “Mohamuzhi kuuda unakku kidaikkalai,” meaning, “You couldn’t even get a final glimpse of your father’s face.” That comment pierced my heart.
Even worse, if a son lives nearby and still refuses to attend his father’s funeral, society finds that completely unacceptable. No matter how deep the enmity, death dissolves all such divisions. If this is true even for friends and distant relatives, how much more important is it in the case of one’s own father?
This scenario starkly contrasts with the Bhakta’s actions I previously mentioned. While the latter fulfilled his duties towards his parents and family traditions despite his faith, this case shows how some religious perspectives can create divisions, even in moments of family sorrow, by demanding a strict adherence to beliefs at the expense of family relationships and cultural practices. A funeral is no place for theology.
Universal
This situation is not limited only to us; it can be seen across different cultures and faiths. I know of another family in North India. When the mother was on her deathbed, her daughter, who had been caring for her, sent a message to her brother in America. She informed him that their mother was in her last moments and wanted to see him one last time. However, the son, due to his workload and other responsibilities, could not make the journey. He replied, asking his sister to take care of their mother and to perform all the funeral rituals in the presence of their father. Eventually, the mother passed away, and the rituals were carried out as planned. Though his absence was felt, his response reflected a prioritization of practical matters over his personal connection to his mother in her final moments. This case reflects the challenges and emotional burdens that arise when family members are unable to be present due to personal obligations or practical difficulties, even in the most critical times. Of course, he later wept and was filled with deep remorse. But it was too late—such an opportunity, once lost, never comes again.
0So consider all three cases. A Hindu Bhakta never shared his faith with his parents but remained very faithful and honest to his call to the Lord, as well as in his service to his parents — not because of his Bhakti, but because he valued respecting and taking care of them. Another Hindu convert, because of the foolish teaching of the church, refused to go on a date with his mother to participate in the tarpan. And then there is the third case, which has now become a new normal around the world. It emphasizes the complexity of balancing family duties with personal or professional commitments.
Who pays the cost: parents or proselytized [convert?]
This is about three sisters who became Christians, which forced their parents to pay the cost for that. This estranged their relationship, humiliated them before relatives and friends. They raged with anger; the mother even said that she would kill the Christian who converted them and go to jail to live with peace of mind rather than living with everyday turmoil in life. The ultimate question is, though, like most of the converts, these sisters also played the victim card of persecution. In reality, their parents ultimately paid the price for that. This I will share in a separate Part: Witnessing What: Part Four
Summary:
True Bhakti does not mean abandoning our families under the pretext of “taking a stand for the Lord.” It means living with deeper loyalty and fulfilling our dharma toward them with even greater faithfulness.
Preaching is easy—but living out the Lord’s compassion, day after day, without fanfare, is the real preaching—though it often goes unnoticed by the world.
This is the tragedy when Bhakti is reduced to an institutional label.
The early Church was never meant to be a “religious club” that only recognizes those with formal certificates.
Bhakti transcends boundaries—it calls us to love, serve, and honor relationships, not to create new untouchabilities in the name of conversion. Sadly, the pain caused by religious communities can be more devastating than any opposition from families. Bhakti must never make our hearts harder.
Following the Lord does not mean neglecting our parents in their final days. When we prioritize ‘our witnessing life’ over basic human duties, we violate not only culture but also the very spirit of the Gospel.
No sermon we preach can undo the pain of a lost opportunity to love.
These three examples illustrate how religious and familial duties intersect, and how different beliefs impact decisions during crucial moments. In the first case, love and respect for parents took precedence, regardless of religious expression. In the second, religious teaching created a barrier between faith and family responsibility.
In the third, the pressures of modern life led to physical absence in a moment that required presence.
In all these situations, the value of family and responsibility to care for loved ones remains paramount—whether or not one is sharing their faith or participating in rituals.
Concluding Reflection
Today, human values seem measured solely through the lenses of economy, money, or faith—rarely through the lens of responsibility, duty, or what we in India call Dharma. This is not just a question for Hindu Bhaktas—it applies equally to atheists, secularists, agnostics, skeptics, and believers of all kinds. This issue transcends religious boundaries and affects families worldwide. Where are we heading as a society?
Are we losing sight of the deeper values that bind families—values rooted in care, duty, and respect, beyond financial calculations?
This is a question we must all ask ourselves, for it challenges the very foundation of human responsibility and our shared future.
Just as Mahatma Gandhi said, though we may not claim, “My life is my message,” we must strive to live in such a way that our lives reflect our Bhakti—without needing loud declarations or formal conversions.
“Preaching” is not about shouting slogans or making public announcements. It is about quietly obeying the Lord’s call: “Follow Me,” without asking, “What about them?”
At the same time, sharing one’s faith should not be abandoned.
It must come spontaneously—not through guilt, slogans, or formulas.
One should not feel compelled to preach just to take a “stand for the Lord.” Rather, our sharing must flow from a life of devotion and obedience—“in season and out of season.”
Above all, never let anyone—whether from Hindu, Christian, or any other background—burden you with false guilt for walking the path God has called you to. Bhakti is not about public performance. It is about sincere devotion—lived with courage, humility, and love. And when we speak, it will be authentic—as the Lord Himself said, “Those who practice and then teach will be called great in the Kingdom of God.”
If any Hindu Bhakta feels led to witness openly for the Lord, they have my blessings. I’ve written more on this in Witnessing What? Part One and Part Two. [see notes one]. Anyone who feels led to testify openly to their family must be prepared to pay the price. But they should never allow anyone to manipulate them with guilt for the decisions they take.
I remember an incident in Rewa (Madhya Pradesh). A traditional Christian couple who had evangelized many youth told us,
“Unlike you people who prefer to stand with kings like Naaman for your survival, we encourage them to deny their Hindu identity, take up the cross, and follow the Lord.”
Ironically, while urging others to abandon their cultural identity, they themselves avoided confronting the growing weight the word “Christian” now carries—not only in India, but in many parts of the world. When a personal relationship with Bhagavan is replaced by agendas driven by slogans and formulas, it inevitably devolves into a kind of kabaddi-kabaddi evangelism—loud, aggressive, and performative—carried out under the guise of “taking a stand for the Lord,” yet lacking any genuine commitment to the God-given responsibilities that can only be fulfilled through real fellowship. This includes honoring relationships we don’t choose—like those with our parents—which are meant to be celebrated, not sidelined.
May 1, 2025. Ashram.
1 “Witnessing What? Part One” and “Witnessing What? Part Two” (see: https://dayanandbharati.in/witnessing-what/ and https://dayanandbharati.in/witnessing-what-part-two/).
2 Hoefer, Herbert E. Churchless Christianity. Madras: Gurukul Lutheran Theological College and Research Institute, 1991
3 ibid. p. 96
4 Even among Christians from other castes, the influence of caste is deep rooted. Hoefer gives an example of this, telling the story of a Nadar Christian student who was asked whether he would prefer a non-Christian Nadar wife or a non-Nadar Christian wife, with the boy replying immediately, “A Nadar wife, of course” (ibid. 55)
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