Rahul Mehta doesn't need God.
He's fairly sure about this. Not in an aggressive way — he's not the guy who picks fights about religion at parties. He just doesn't see the point. He's twenty-eight, earns well, lives alone in a 2 BHK in Baner, and gets through his days without divine intervention of any kind.
Here is a typical Tuesday for Rahul.
He wakes up at 6:45 AM. His alarm is set to a podcast — some American guy talking about venture capital. He showers, pulls on a blue check shirt, makes instant coffee with Nescafé Gold (the only brand he's loyal to), and eats two slices of bread with peanut butter while scrolling through Slack messages. By 7:40 he's in his car, driving to the Hinjewadi IT park on the Baner-Balewadi road, swearing at the same traffic he swears at every morning.
He's an SDE-2 at a fintech company. Decent salary. Stock options that might be worth something someday. He graduated from COEP in 2019, did two years at an MNC in Magarpatta, then moved to this startup because the money was better and the problems were more interesting. He writes backend code, mostly in Go, occasionally in Python. He's good at it. His last performance review said "exceeds expectations."
At lunch he orders from Swiggy. Dal, rice, sabzi, roti from a nearby tiffin service. He eats at his desk in twelve minutes while watching a YouTube video. He doesn't think about the food.
After work, three days a week, he goes to a gym in Balewadi. He tracks his protein intake on an app. He sleeps by 11:30, usually after twenty minutes of scrolling Instagram.
On weekends he meets friends at a café in Koregaon Park or drives to Lavasa if someone suggests it. Sometimes his mother calls from Nagpur and asks if he's going to the temple. He says "Haan, sometime" and doesn't go.
Rahul is not anti-religion. He went to Ganpati celebrations as a kid. He knows the words to a few aartis. He has a faded photo of Sai Baba in his car's dashboard — it was already there when he bought the car secondhand, and he never bothered to remove it. He doesn't pray. He doesn't not-pray. God is simply not a category that his daily life requires.
If you asked him — really asked him, at that Koregaon Park café over a flat white — "Why don't you need God?", he'd probably say something like this:
"Look, I respect people who are into that stuff. My grandmother was very devout — she did puja every morning, she wouldn't eat without offering food first. That was her generation. But honestly? I built my career myself. I studied hard, got into COEP, learned to code, got the job. Nobody appeared in a dream and handed me an offer letter. My salary comes from my company, not from a temple. I eat because Swiggy delivers. I'm healthy because I go to the gym. I remember things because I have a functioning brain. What exactly is God doing for me that I can't see?"
It's a fair question. It's not arrogant — it's honest. And most of the 200 people in Rahul's office building would say roughly the same thing if they were being truthful. God is fine. God is cultural. God is for festivals and family WhatsApp groups. But God is not operationally relevant to Tuesday.
This book is for Rahul.
Not to argue with him. Not to guilt him. Not to tell him his grandmother was right and he's wrong. But to do one simple thing: take his own Tuesday — his coffee, his food, his digestion, his memory, his body that runs while he sleeps — and trace each of those things one step further than he's ever traced them.
That's all.
Rahul says his food comes from Swiggy. True. But where does Swiggy get it? From a restaurant. Where does the restaurant get it? From a market. Where does the market get it? From a farm. Where does the farm get the energy to grow anything? From the sun. Where does the sun get its energy?
That's where it gets interesting.
Rahul says he remembers things because he has a "functioning brain." Also true. But who built the brain? He didn't. Who loads it with memory every morning when he wakes up? He doesn't — he can't even control what he remembers and what he forgets. He's studied for exams and gone blank. He's tried to forget an ex-girlfriend and couldn't. The memory system runs on its own terms, not his.
Rahul says his body works because he goes to the gym. But the gym only works his muscles. Who's running the other 99% of his body — the digestion that processes his dal rice in four hours, the immune system that fights off bacteria he never even notices, the heart that beats 100,000 times a day without him ever asking it to? He's never once told his heart to beat. It just does. Why?
These aren't spiritual questions. They're supply chain questions. Follow the chain far enough — from your plate to the sun, from your stomach to the fire inside it, from your morning awareness to the memory system you didn't design — and you arrive at a point where the mechanism is fully described but the origin is unexplained.
At that point, one book in human history offers a precise, specific, testable-sounding set of answers. Not vague answers. Not "God works in mysterious ways." Precise ones.
Four verses. Four claims. Four supply chains.
Five thousand years ago, on a battlefield in Kurukshetra, Krishna spoke four consecutive verses to Arjuna — Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 15, verses 12 through 15. In these verses, He made four specific claims about His involvement in the material world:
Verse 12: The splendor of the sun — the energy that illuminates and powers the entire world — comes from Me.
Verse 13: I enter the earth and sustain all beings with My energy. I become the moon and nourish all plants with the juice of life.
Verse 14: I become the digestive fire in every living being, and — working with the outgoing and incoming breath — I digest the four kinds of food.
Verse 15: I am seated in everyone's heart. From Me come remembrance, knowledge, and forgetting.
Read those again slowly.
Krishna is not making a vague, feel-good claim about being "everywhere." He's making four mechanistic claims — sunlight, nourishment, digestion, cognition — each of which corresponds to an observable, traceable physical system. He's saying: I'm not somewhere out there. I'm in your light, your food, your belly, and your mind. Right now. Running things.
The question is whether that's true.
This book will not ask you to accept it on faith. It will not quote scriptures and expect you to nod. What it will do — chapter by chapter, chain by chain — is trace the supply chains behind four things you do every single day: eat, taste, digest, and remember. The tracing will be done with biology, chemistry, physics, and economics — no faith required at any step. And at the end of each chain, when the science has described the mechanism fully and the origin question remains open, we'll look at what Krishna said and see if it fits.
If it doesn't fit, you'll know. If it does — well, that's between you and the coffee in your hand.
Let's start with lunch.
Next chapter: "Swiggy from 150 Million Kilometres Away"