I am Arun, a middle-aged clerk living in Pune, father of two, and a son to an aging mother with failing memory. Most days, I found myself crushed beneath the weight of responsibilities—job deadlines, tuition fees, fixing the leaking roof. It felt like I was walking through molasses, dragging my tired feet through life.
It wasn’t always like this. I used to find joy in the small things—a cup of chai before sunrise, the smell of rain on mud. Somewhere along the way, I traded those moments for lists and expectations.
One Thursday morning, after dropping my daughter at school, I stayed back near the small Hanuman temple across the street. The pujari there, an old widower with a gentle voice, was washing the idol with water from the Ganga—he told me he'd brought back a small bottle during his last visit to Kashi.
I don’t know why, but I sat on the temple steps longer than I meant to. As my phone buzzed with emails, I stared at Hanuman ji’s face—his eyes full of strength but also something softer: humility.
A verse from the Bhagavad Gita floated into my mind, something my high school Sanskrit teacher made us memorize:
"Do your duty, but do not concern yourself with the results." (Gita 2.47)
I always remembered that line, but I'd never truly taken it to heart. Maybe I thought remembering it was enough. But that morning, watching the quiet simplicity of the temple routine, it struck me differently. What if I was piling on anxiety because I had mistaken control for duty?
I thought of Sita ma, from the Ramayana, walking barefoot through forests with Lord Rama, embracing every moment without complaint. Not because it was easy, but because it was her dharma—her sacred responsibility chosen with love.
And Arjuna, in the Mahabharata, overwhelmed and despairing on the battlefield, until Krishna reminded him: “You are a warrior. Your path is action, guided by righteousness.” (Gita 3.19)
Something softened inside me.
I walked home slowly, stopping to help an old lady pick up spilled groceries. My mother asked for the tenth time that day where her glasses were, and I didn’t snap. My heart felt...lighter. Nothing had changed outside. But I had.
That night, I whispered a small prayer, remembering the Isha Upanishad:
"Take only what is yours. Do not take more. This is the path of truth."
I realized—I had been shouldering more than my dharma. I had taken on the illusion of control, the burden of tomorrow. But dharma isn’t just work—it’s doing the right action in the right spirit, without clinging.
Now, when the tasks stack up, I breathe, do one thing sincerely, and leave the results to the Divine.
Bit by bit, I’m learning to walk lightly.
I am Arun, a middle-aged clerk living in Pune, father of two, and a son to an aging mother with failing memory. Most days, I found myself crushed beneath the weight of responsibilities—job deadlines, tuition fees, fixing the leaking roof. It felt like I was walking through molasses, dragging my tired feet through life.
It wasn’t always like this. I used to find joy in the small things—a cup of chai before sunrise, the smell of rain on mud. Somewhere along the way, I traded those moments for lists and expectations.
One Thursday morning, after dropping my daughter at school, I stayed back near the small Hanuman temple across the street. The pujari there, an old widower with a gentle voice, was washing the idol with water from the Ganga—he told me he'd brought back a small bottle during his last visit to Kashi.
I don’t know why, but I sat on the temple steps longer than I meant to. As my phone buzzed with emails, I stared at Hanuman ji’s face—his eyes full of strength but also something softer: humility.
A verse from the Bhagavad Gita floated into my mind, something my high school Sanskrit teacher made us memorize:
"Do your duty, but do not concern yourself with the results." (Gita 2.47)
I always remembered that line, but I'd never truly taken it to heart. Maybe I thought remembering it was enough. But that morning, watching the quiet simplicity of the temple routine, it struck me differently. What if I was piling on anxiety because I had mistaken control for duty?
I thought of Sita ma, from the Ramayana, walking barefoot through forests with Lord Rama, embracing every moment without complaint. Not because it was easy, but because it was her dharma—her sacred responsibility chosen with love.
And Arjuna, in the Mahabharata, overwhelmed and despairing on the battlefield, until Krishna reminded him: “You are a warrior. Your path is action, guided by righteousness.” (Gita 3.19)
Something softened inside me.
I walked home slowly, stopping to help an old lady pick up spilled groceries. My mother asked for the tenth time that day where her glasses were, and I didn’t snap. My heart felt...lighter. Nothing had changed outside. But I had.
That night, I whispered a small prayer, remembering the Isha Upanishad:
"Take only what is yours. Do not take more. This is the path of truth."
I realized—I had been shouldering more than my dharma. I had taken on the illusion of control, the burden of tomorrow. But dharma isn’t just work—it’s doing the right action in the right spirit, without clinging.
Now, when the tasks stack up, I breathe, do one thing sincerely, and leave the results to the Divine.
Bit by bit, I’m learning to walk lightly.
