This is a guest post written by Sibaram Das. The insights, perspectives, and experiences presented in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of Indrosphere. While we are committed to maintaining high editorial standards, we cannot assume responsibility for the content contributed by our esteemed guest contributors.

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Just like ripples on water, history moves—interconnected, spreading outward, shaping the world in ways we often fail to notice. Yet if one follows those ripples with patience, they may find an origin point—a forgotten moment in time that still echoes in the present. My recent journey to Lalish, the holiest site of the Yazidis in northern Iraq, felt like tracing such a ripple—one that might stretch all the way back to India, or perhaps simply reflect the deep universality of certain human beliefs.

During the 10th and 11th centuries, waves of Turkish invasions shook the Indian subcontinent, displacing communities. Some fled westward from Rajasthan, Punjab, and Sindh, seeking refuge in foreign lands. While many settled in Persia or moved on to Europe as the Romani, I couldn’t help but wonder: could others have journeyed yet another way, settling quietly in the rugged mountains of Mesopotamia? Could they have preserved fragments of an ancient faith that, over centuries, fused with local traditions to create something entirely new, yet faintly familiar?

Today, the Yazidis remain a mysterious people, their beliefs hinting at possible echoes of a forgotten Indian past—or perhaps reflecting parallel spiritual developments that transcend borders.

When I arrived in Lalish, I stepped slowly along a narrow gravel path into a sacred valley surrounded by ancient stone houses and timeless shrines. The place radiated peace, as if untouched by the outside world. At the temple entrance, I removed my shoes—just as one would before entering a Hindu temple.

The conical domes, stone steps, and wooden doors felt startlingly reminiscent of North Indian temples. A black serpent carved into the entrance wall was considered auspicious to touch, while stepping on the threshold was forbidden—another practice I knew well from Hindu traditions.

Inside, oil lamps cast flickering shadows on the stone walls. There was no electricity; only the eternal glow of flames that, I was told, had burned for centuries. The scent of oil and incense lingered in the cool air. An elderly priest guided me into an underground chamber where a sacred black stone rested. Almost instinctively, I bowed before it—an act that brought a knowing smile to his face, as if he recognised a shared reverence.

Rituals that Feel Like Home

In another part of the temple, a man carried a lit lamp, chanting prayers as he walked—eerily similar to the Hindu aarti. Yet despite the parallels, something about the place felt uniquely of this land. This was not a temple transplanted from India; it was a shrine of Mesopotamia, deeply woven into the soil and spirit of these mountains.

After leaving the temple, I was invited by a man waving from his rooftop to join him for a meal. On his terrace under the open sky, we shared a warm, simple lunch. Language was a barrier, but with gestures and Google Translate, we connected. They were surprised to meet an Indian, especially a Bengali. None of them had met one before.

Their children had returned from Europe for pilgrimage, seeking to reconnect with their ancient roots in a world that constantly pulls them away.

Breaking Bread, Finding Reflections

The meal was humble but satisfying: a wheat-based pilaf that reminded me of Indian rice dishes, served with tender lamb. Alongside it was ayran, a tangy yoghurt drink perfect for the afternoon heat. They washed their hands before and after eating—a practice familiar from Indian customs around ritual purity.

Their clothing, too, seemed timeless: men in long white or grey robes cinched at the waist, some with colourful turbans; women in long, flowing garments, with white or black headscarves. On special days, bright clothes and silver jewellery passed down through generations adorned them with quiet dignity.

As I sat with them, the parallels between Yazidism and Hinduism began to swirl in my mind:

• Removing shoes before entering sacred spaces.
• Eternal flames burning inside shrines.
• Reverence for a black stone.
• Circumambulation during worship.
• The offering of light.
• Fire as a sacred element.
• Belief in reincarnation and the cyclical nature of time.

But was this more than a coincidence? Could Yazidism be an offshoot of a faith carried from India, later mingled with local Mesopotamian traditions into a syncretic tapestry? Or are these shared elements simply reflections of universal human impulses toward light, purity, and the mysteries of life and death?

The Yazidis’ supreme deity, Melek Taus—the Peacock Angel, guardian of the universe—especially fueled my curiosity. Kartikeya, or Murugan in Hinduism, is also a guardian deity and rides a peacock. Yet was this a sign of ancient connection, or another case of symbols arising independently across cultures?

As I departed Lalish, walking again on the gravel path under the fading light, I carried with me more questions than answers. Perhaps Yazidism is very much a faith of this place—rooted in Mesopotamia—yet shaped, in part, by distant migrations and forgotten meetings of peoples long ago.

Or perhaps these echoes are simply proof that certain spiritual truths are universal, re-emerging wherever humans search for meaning.

For a fleeting moment, history seemed to whisper something profound. And in that whisper, the world felt smaller, yet more infinite than ever before.

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Author Bio:
Sibaram Das is an aircraft maintenance engineer turned full-time entrepreneur, but his true passion lies in exploring the world as a seeker of stories. Having travelled to 38 countries, he ventures beyond conventional tourism to uncover the deeper layers of human culture, forgotten traditions, and nearly lost civilisations. From tribal gatherings in Africa to the ruins of Mesopotamia, Sibaram’s journeys are about breaking stereotypes, building empathy, and listening deeply to the stories that shape humanity.