Om Symbol Meaning in Malaysia: My Journey Through Yoga, Faith, and Identity

The Sanskrit “Om” (ॐ, also written as Aum) has always fascinated me. It’s said to be one of the most sacred sounds in Indian traditions — the vibration of the universe, the first sound of creation. In yoga, Om is chanted to steady the breath and mind. In Buddhism, it appears in mantras like Om Mani Padme Hum. To me, it feels like both a sound and a symbol — carrying the weight of the divine, of consciousness, of everything being connected.

Here in Malaysia, it’s a familiar sight. Many Indian households have Om on their walls or doors, sometimes drawn at the entrance, sometimes printed on calendars or framed with images of Ganesha. For Hindus, it’s protection and presence — a way of inviting blessings and peace into the home. In that sense, it’s not so different from how Malay Muslim households hang calligraphy of “Allah” and “Muhammad.” Both are reminders of faith, both invite the divine into the space, both hold the same intention of protection.

As someone who practices yoga, Om has naturally found its way into my own path. Chanting it feels grounding. But I’ve also come to learn that it isn’t just a pretty design you place anywhere. It’s sacred. It deserves respect. Which is why I’ve heard people say that printing Om on yoga mats isn’t quite right — because in Indian culture, feet are considered the lowest part of the body. To step on something sacred, even by accident, feels like stepping on a prayer.

I don’t own one of those mats. Mine is just a plain black one from Lululemon. But still, Om has been on my mind. Not on a mat — but maybe on my wrist. A small, delicate tattoo. Something that stays close.

And yet, I’m not rushing. I’ve told myself: let a year pass. Let me see where my yoga journey takes me. If Om still feels aligned then, it will carry the weight of growth, not just impulse.

Because lately, I’ve been leaning into something bigger. I’ve been reading about Buddhism, watching, listening, slowly learning. I feel drawn to it. Next year, I want to experience a temple stay. One day, I hope to travel to Rishikesh, to deepen both my yoga and my understanding of Buddhist teachings. I don’t want to chase it. I just want to let it unfold, piece by piece.

Spirituality, I’m learning, is not a sprint. It’s a slow unfolding.

And maybe that’s why the question of religion feels so heavy for me. People ask, “So, what religion are you?” And I don’t really know what to say.

I don’t want to say I’m Muslim — I don’t practice, and I don’t feel it resonates with me anymore. At the same time, I don’t want to call myself Buddhist either — because I haven’t “converted,” I don’t perform the rituals, I don’t bow to the Buddha statue as God. I respect it deeply, but I see it as a symbol.

So most of the time, I just say: “I was born Muslim, but I don’t really practice.” It’s not a denial of my background, but it’s also not pretending to be someone I’m not. Most people accept it. And those who don’t — their judgment is their own, not my truth. 

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