I am Meena, daughter of a small temple priest from the village of Prayag. I remember the way incense clung to my cotton skirts as a child, how peace settled into my bones the moment I sat before the murti — the sacred image — of Bhagavan Krishna, the divine friend and protector.
But peace felt very far away the night my sister betrayed me.
Chitra and I were born only one year apart. We shared everything — hair oil, secrets, mangoes. I trusted her with everything I had: my heart, my hopes, and the boy I had quietly loved since we were fourteen.
His name was Arjun, and three months before I was to be betrothed to him, Chitra came to me in tears.
“He came to me first,” she whispered.
I didn’t understand.
“He told me months ago that he loved me — not you.”
The world didn’t shatter loudly. It simply… grew quiet. Numb. Strange.
I don’t remember what I said. Maybe nothing. But three weeks later, they were engaged.
For months, I moved like a ghost — through temple bells, turmeric-smelling kitchens, the festival songs — all without touching a single breath of joy.
One evening, I climbed the ghat steps alone and sat by the Ganga — our sacred river that watches everything, forgives everything. I brought no offerings. I had no prayers, only pain.
A breeze lifted the edge of my dupatta. The river didn’t ask, “Why?” It didn’t question if I deserved it or not. It just flowed.
Suddenly — almost noiselessly — a line I’d heard all my life bubbled up from within me:
“na tvam socitum arhasi” — “You are not to grieve,” from the Bhagavad Gita (2.11).
Krishna had said it to Arjuna — not the one I loved, but the warrior prince, when his heart was splintered with conflict and betrayal from his own family.
"You do what is yours to do, without attachment to the result,” (BG 2.47). Another verse rose in me like a memory never truly forgotten.
I closed my eyes. The Gita wasn’t telling me to forget it. It was asking me to carry it differently.
In the Ramayana, Lord Rama walks years through forests and pain after losing Sita. He doesn’t curse the forest. He walks it. He waits. He listens.
And in that moment, sitting on the stone steps, I stopped waiting for someone else to fix the hole in my heart.
The hurt didn’t vanish, but it softened.
Eventually, I smiled again — first at strangers, then at myself in the mirror. Years later, when my own child laughed while offering flowers to Ganesha — the remover of obstacles — I wept, not for what I’d lost, but for what I had unknowingly kept: my spirit.
They betrayed my heart. But not my ātman — my soul’s inner light.
Scripture says: “This Self cannot be wounded by weapons, burned by fire, dried by wind, or wet by water” (Bhagavad Gita 2.23). What Chitra broke… was only the shell.
The Spirit survives.
And so did I.
I am Meena, daughter of a small temple priest from the village of Prayag. I remember the way incense clung to my cotton skirts as a child, how peace settled into my bones the moment I sat before the murti — the sacred image — of Bhagavan Krishna, the divine friend and protector.
But peace felt very far away the night my sister betrayed me.
Chitra and I were born only one year apart. We shared everything — hair oil, secrets, mangoes. I trusted her with everything I had: my heart, my hopes, and the boy I had quietly loved since we were fourteen.
His name was Arjun, and three months before I was to be betrothed to him, Chitra came to me in tears.
“He came to me first,” she whispered.
I didn’t understand.
“He told me months ago that he loved me — not you.”
The world didn’t shatter loudly. It simply… grew quiet. Numb. Strange.
I don’t remember what I said. Maybe nothing. But three weeks later, they were engaged.
For months, I moved like a ghost — through temple bells, turmeric-smelling kitchens, the festival songs — all without touching a single breath of joy.
One evening, I climbed the ghat steps alone and sat by the Ganga — our sacred river that watches everything, forgives everything. I brought no offerings. I had no prayers, only pain.
A breeze lifted the edge of my dupatta. The river didn’t ask, “Why?” It didn’t question if I deserved it or not. It just flowed.
Suddenly — almost noiselessly — a line I’d heard all my life bubbled up from within me:
“na tvam socitum arhasi” — “You are not to grieve,” from the Bhagavad Gita (2.11).
Krishna had said it to Arjuna — not the one I loved, but the warrior prince, when his heart was splintered with conflict and betrayal from his own family.
"You do what is yours to do, without attachment to the result,” (BG 2.47). Another verse rose in me like a memory never truly forgotten.
I closed my eyes. The Gita wasn’t telling me to forget it. It was asking me to carry it differently.
In the Ramayana, Lord Rama walks years through forests and pain after losing Sita. He doesn’t curse the forest. He walks it. He waits. He listens.
And in that moment, sitting on the stone steps, I stopped waiting for someone else to fix the hole in my heart.
The hurt didn’t vanish, but it softened.
Eventually, I smiled again — first at strangers, then at myself in the mirror. Years later, when my own child laughed while offering flowers to Ganesha — the remover of obstacles — I wept, not for what I’d lost, but for what I had unknowingly kept: my spirit.
They betrayed my heart. But not my ātman — my soul’s inner light.
Scripture says: “This Self cannot be wounded by weapons, burned by fire, dried by wind, or wet by water” (Bhagavad Gita 2.23). What Chitra broke… was only the shell.
The Spirit survives.
And so did I.
