I am Arundhati, and this story took place when I was 29, the year Appa died.
He was gone before I could say goodbye. My world—once ordered like the prayers chanted before dawn—suddenly crumbled, leaving only silence. Every morning after the funeral, I sat by the jasmine plant he had tended with such quiet care. I kept waiting for his voice to return in the breeze, but it never did.
Appa was the one who taught me to trust the Divine, not with loud praise, but with small, steady acts. He would murmur to the tulasi plant before watering it, light a diya every evening even on days power-cut shadows swallowed the house, and quietly recite shlokas from the Bhagavad Gita.
I didn’t realize how much I relied on his faith until he was no longer there to lend it to me.
I didn’t know what to do with my grief. Some days I avoided the prayer room entirely. Other days, I’d sit and stare at the portrait of Lord Shiva—Ashutosh, the one easily pleased—but even his calm eyes didn’t comfort me. I felt like I was carrying a broken pot inside me that couldn’t hold trust anymore.
Then, one morning, while sweeping the front step, I found a small rubber ball. Our neighbor’s boy, Ravi, came running over.
“That’s mine!” he said, breathless.
I gave it back, but before he ran off, he looked at me with his big brown eyes and asked, “Did your Appa go to Bhagwan’s house?”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Then he’s not lost. Just like my ball. You only need to ask Him, and He gives things back sometimes,” he said, gripping the ball to his chest and skipping away.
I stood frozen. The simplicity of it pierced through everything. That evening, I lit the diya. Not because I felt ready, but because something cracked open with that child’s words.
I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita (Chapter 18, Verse 66), which Appa had once whispered while watering the plants: "Abandon all varieties of duty and just surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reactions. Do not fear."
I whispered it too, barely loud enough for even the jasmine to hear. My heart didn't fill with certainty, but it quieted slightly.
Over the next weeks, trust returned little by little. Not all at once. Like the sun rising behind heavy clouds—you don’t see the light suddenly, but you begin to feel the warmth.
I returned to the practice of reading the Upanishads with my evening chai. I found comfort in the Isa Upanishad’s reminder: “The Self is everywhere. Bright is the Self, indivisible, untouched by sin, wise, immanent and transcendent.”
Slowly, even the silence around me began to feel sacred.
Now, I still miss Appa—his soft humming, his gentle hands folding into pranams—but I’ve learned to walk with uncertainty. Not by defeating it, but by holding the Divine’s hand as I pass through it.
Like Lord Krishna told Arjuna at Kurukshetra, in the Mahabharata, “Do your duty, yield not to weakness.” I may not have many answers, but I’ve taken one step. And then another.
And that is enough.
For now.
I am Arundhati, and this story took place when I was 29, the year Appa died.
He was gone before I could say goodbye. My world—once ordered like the prayers chanted before dawn—suddenly crumbled, leaving only silence. Every morning after the funeral, I sat by the jasmine plant he had tended with such quiet care. I kept waiting for his voice to return in the breeze, but it never did.
Appa was the one who taught me to trust the Divine, not with loud praise, but with small, steady acts. He would murmur to the tulasi plant before watering it, light a diya every evening even on days power-cut shadows swallowed the house, and quietly recite shlokas from the Bhagavad Gita.
I didn’t realize how much I relied on his faith until he was no longer there to lend it to me.
I didn’t know what to do with my grief. Some days I avoided the prayer room entirely. Other days, I’d sit and stare at the portrait of Lord Shiva—Ashutosh, the one easily pleased—but even his calm eyes didn’t comfort me. I felt like I was carrying a broken pot inside me that couldn’t hold trust anymore.
Then, one morning, while sweeping the front step, I found a small rubber ball. Our neighbor’s boy, Ravi, came running over.
“That’s mine!” he said, breathless.
I gave it back, but before he ran off, he looked at me with his big brown eyes and asked, “Did your Appa go to Bhagwan’s house?”
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Then he’s not lost. Just like my ball. You only need to ask Him, and He gives things back sometimes,” he said, gripping the ball to his chest and skipping away.
I stood frozen. The simplicity of it pierced through everything. That evening, I lit the diya. Not because I felt ready, but because something cracked open with that child’s words.
I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita (Chapter 18, Verse 66), which Appa had once whispered while watering the plants: "Abandon all varieties of duty and just surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reactions. Do not fear."
I whispered it too, barely loud enough for even the jasmine to hear. My heart didn't fill with certainty, but it quieted slightly.
Over the next weeks, trust returned little by little. Not all at once. Like the sun rising behind heavy clouds—you don’t see the light suddenly, but you begin to feel the warmth.
I returned to the practice of reading the Upanishads with my evening chai. I found comfort in the Isa Upanishad’s reminder: “The Self is everywhere. Bright is the Self, indivisible, untouched by sin, wise, immanent and transcendent.”
Slowly, even the silence around me began to feel sacred.
Now, I still miss Appa—his soft humming, his gentle hands folding into pranams—but I’ve learned to walk with uncertainty. Not by defeating it, but by holding the Divine’s hand as I pass through it.
Like Lord Krishna told Arjuna at Kurukshetra, in the Mahabharata, “Do your duty, yield not to weakness.” I may not have many answers, but I’ve taken one step. And then another.
And that is enough.
For now.
