The Conversion To Intolerance: How the Missionaries are destroying the ancient Hindu Culture

Posted September 8, 2009

Raju Peddada
July 27, 2009
SWANS
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[Author\'s note: What I write here is controversial, perhaps even inflammatory, but unequivocally true. The daily incidents unfolding in south India, at the missionaries and churches had been verified thoroughly during my trip last year, in direct contact with the victims, re-converts, village and panchayat officers. More than anything, what really prodded me to address this chilling milieu is a simple fact, I also, in my liberal and open mindedness have been the unfortunate and involuntary beneficiary of religious intolerance, especially the subversive conversion machinations through my two marriages and a relationship. It is eerily corroborative with the incidents presented here.]



\"Religious intolerance was inevitably born with the belief in one God.\"
—Sigmund Freud

\"The oldest aspects of Hindu mythology give place to the most profound and subtle utterances about the nature of ultimate reality, it is in itself a liberal education in humility, tolerance and suspense of judgment.\"
—Aldous Huxley



(Swans - July 27, 2009) Despite the decades that slipped by, I distinctly remember the smells and sounds of the remote south Indian villages. In the innocent years dissolved, you could hear mothers calling out to their kids to come home for supper at sunset. Sunsets demarcated life from slumber. Standing on the high verandahs you could hear the thunderous stampede of returning cattle from grazing, and smell and see the distant clouds of billowing dust permeated with the golden rays of the descending sun. Farm boys and shepherds in cussing repartees in rural dialects, blessed by the tolling bells of evening prayers at a nearby temple; coteries of village elders discussing crops and older couples visiting neighbors, and an occasional distant melancholic flute coaxing the wind to carry the ironies of past paradises. After a hot supper on the verandah, under the fading light, folding cots or reed mats were set up for the nights under the twinkling eternity and soothing conversation of leaves and the wind. It was peaceful and ethereal, almost therapeutic for the tired souls and revelatory for the young ones. Bedtime stories proliferated from grandmothers and great aunts. Ah, that innocence and dusty rural fragrance of daily struggles expiated our mendacious and jaded city souls. All is lost now, assailed by the din of fervent missionaries.
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