Sanatan Is Not a Religion, It Is a Business
Sanatan Is Not a Religion, It Is a
Business
Recently, I watched a video where
a reporter spoke to a group of people about idol worship and the greatness of
Sanatan. What stood out was not the question, but the answer. The people being
interviewed, all identifying as Hindus, said openly what is usually denied or
softened: Sanatan today is not a religion; it is a business.
For a moment, there was a strange
sense of relief. Not because the reality is pleasant, but because it confirmed
something important: this understanding is no longer marginal. Many people in
India, and increasingly across the world, are beginning to see organized
religion for what it has become.
And this is not about Sanatan
alone. Every organized religion today operates as a business. Wherever religion
is organized, money follows. Wherever money flows, structures emerge. And
wherever structures solidify, power concentrates. Temples, churches, mosques, and
gurudwaras across the world increasingly resemble revenue-driven institutions
more than spaces of spiritual reflection. They are run with systems,
hierarchies, branding, and performance metrics that would not look out of place
in a corporation.
If religion were truly about
connecting with the divine or realizing the self, there would be no obsession
with donation counts, no public celebration of who gave how much, and no moral
hierarchy built around wealth. Yet this is exactly what we see.
Big donors are named. Their
generosity is announced. Their presence is elevated. Faith becomes
performative. Spirituality turns competitive.
In Sanatan, this has been
normalized to the point where the amount donated to a temple routinely becomes
news. The cost of building a temple becomes a headline. The money spent
dressing idols becomes a point of pride. The jewels placed on the head of a stone
idol, gold crowns, diamonds, and precious gems, are photographed, televised,
and discussed as if they represent spiritual achievement.
At the same time, just outside
these temples, thousands of people stand in long lines for a single meal.
They wait quietly. They are
rarely photographed. They do not trend. Their hunger is invisible not only to
the media, but often to the very devotees who walk past them after donating to
an idol already surrounded by excess. The contrast is striking, and it is not
accidental.
When devotion is redirected
toward spectacle, excess becomes virtue. Lavishness is mistaken for faith. The
richer the idol looks, the holier the place is assumed to be. In this
framework, feeding a hungry person carries less prestige than funding another
layer of gold.
If religion were truly about
compassion, the priorities would be reversed.
The headlines would not be about
how expensive a temple is, but about how many people were fed. The celebration
would not be about jewels on idols, but about dignity restored to human beings.
The queues that mattered would not be for darshan, but for nourishment.
Instead, we glorify stone wrapped
in luxury and normalize humans wrapped in need. This is where the business
model becomes impossible to ignore. Rituals were designed not just for
symbolism, but for psychology. Over time, they stopped being symbolic and
became transactional. Today, walking into many temples feels less like entering
a space of introspection and more like stepping into a marketplace.
There is always a counter. Always
a price. Always a “special” service for more money. Modern temples openly
operate with menus. Rituals are categorized. Rates are fixed. Priority access
costs extra. Blessings are tiered. Tips are encouraged. The thicker the
envelope, the warmer the smile.
Helping the poor, feeding the
hungry, supporting those in real need, that is compassion. That is humanity.
But handing over hard-earned money to institutions and individuals who are
already wealthy, simply because they are skilled at manipulating belief and
guilt, is not charity. It is exploitation.
History offers a different
picture.
Spiritual gatherings once
happened in open spaces under trees, in forests, in nature. Simple platforms
were built so people could sit, reflect, and gather even when no formal
ceremony was taking place. Buddha attained enlightenment under a tree, not
inside a marble complex guarded by donation boxes and VIP lines.
The original idea of donation was
the contribution of time, effort, care, food, and presence. People cooked
together. Served one another. Maintained shared spaces. Money was incidental,
not central.
Spirituality was always personal.
Religion changed that. It told people which God to worship, how
to worship, where to worship, and most importantly, how much that
worship should cost. God was no longer an experience. God became a product.
Today, religion does not ask
people to be more aware, more compassionate, or more honest. It asks them to
pay. It asks them to perform a belief publicly. It asks them to equate devotion
with expenditure.
Religion has not disappeared. It
has been monetized.
Calling Sanatan or any organized
religion in its present form a business is not an insult, nor an attack on
faith. It is an acknowledgment of how it functions. Because faith does not need
pricing. Spirituality does not need receipts. And truth does not need donation
boxes at the door. What we are witnessing is not devotion. It is commerce.
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