It all started with a discussion I had with my chemistry teacher.
It was a drowsy afternoon — the kind where sunlight slips lazily across the desks, and the air smells faintly of chalk and sulphuric acid.
Sheena Miss stood by the blackboard, drawing tiny circles and arrows, her voice calm and steady. She was explaining how elements were born — how hydrogen fused into helium, how stars lived, died, and scattered their ashes across the universe.
Then she said it, almost casually:
“Everything you see around you was once stardust.”
Something stirred in me. I looked at the periodic table on the wall — oxygen, carbon, iron — and thought, that’s what I’m made of too.
I raised my hand.
“So… Earth came from stars?”
She smiled. “Yes. From clouds of gas and dust left behind when stars died.”
I frowned. “But… how does gas make a planet?”
She turned to the board and sketched a swirl of dots.
“Through something called accretion. Dust and gas collide, stick together, and grow larger.”
I nodded. “And then?”
“Then gravity pulls more and more of it together until a planet is formed.”
I leaned forward. “But… why did gravity pull it together?”
“That’s how gravity works,” she said simply. “Mass attracts mass.”
I hesitated. “But why does gravity exist?”
She paused for a moment. “That’s something even science is still trying to understand.”
That moment stayed with me long after the bell rang.
That night, something changed. It began like a game initially.
I started asking how, when, and why about everything — not just stars or planets, but the smallest, most ordinary things.
Why does the frog croak like that? – Because it’s calling for rain, or maybe a mate.
Then why the frog — why not something else? – Because every living thing is different.
Why does it need to croak at all? – To survive. To continue its kind.
Why must anything survive? – Because every living being strives for life.
Why were living beings designed to do that? – I had no answer.
Soon, my curiosity turned inward.
How does human memory work? – It encodes, stores, and retrieves information.
How is memory stored in the brain? – Through networks of neurons — synaptic connections forming patterns that hold experiences.
Why are some memories lost? – Because the synaptic connections weaken or were never strongly encoded.
Why do some things you never forget? – Because emotion or survival strengthens those synaptic patterns.
Why do you forget something but suddenly remember it later? – Because triggers like smells or sounds awaken the same networks.
And then came the question that stopped me —
Why was the human brain built this way ?
Every pattern I traced ended at a why that had no answer.
And every time I reached that point, something in me felt both frustrated and awake — as if I had touched the edge of what humans could know.
What began as curiosity slowly became a kind of urge.
It was never the what, when, how, or where — it was the why that felt so mighty.
My mother soon grew curious about what I was doing.
She would find me staring at nothing in particular, lost somewhere between thought and wonder.
One evening she asked, “What are you always thinking about?”
I told her — about gravity, about memory, about all the whys that never seemed to end.
She listened patiently, then smiled in that calm, reassuring way only mothers do, and said,
“God made it happen.”
And that’s when it clicked.
Maybe that’s how it all began — not the universe, but our need for God.
We created the idea because we needed something to point to when we reached that final, unanswerable why.
Because silence is unbearable unless we give it a name.
But then another thought struck me.
If that’s true — if humanity invented God to answer that last why — could it have begun with just one curious mind long ago?
Could the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, the Quran – be nothing more than the imagination of seekers, philosophers, poets — writing their experiences and unknowns – ages ago – passed down through generations?
Generation 1 had a hundred unanswered whys.
Generation 2 solved ten and carried the rest 90 forward.
Generation 3 solved twenty and carry forwarded the 70 forward.
And finally now I hold in my hands three holy books that contain the remaining unanswered whys — not answers, but reminders of them.
Perhaps they are humanity’s way of remembering that last why —
the one that has no answer,
the one that makes us turn our faces towards the unknown.
And in that realization, my game of asking why became something more than that.
It became a devotion.
Because the moment I imagine knowing everything — when every why has an answer —
the world would feel smaller. Still and Silent. Without wonder.
I worship the mighty WHYs,
because when all WHYs are answered,
i know that there will be no God,
no religion,
no caste,
no creed —
only silence.