I’m Radhika—daughter of temple priests, wife, mother, and a woman who feared she was running out of time.
At thirty-five, I still had not carved the life I had imagined. My friends boasted of careers abroad, marriages that sparkled in photographs, children who won awards. And me? I lived in my in-laws’ home in Varanasi, still helping with temple duties, still waiting for the small store my husband dreamed of opening.
Each night after dinner, I would sit by the Ganga—our sacred river—and whisper my frustrations to the stars. I asked Krishna—our mischievous God of compassion—why He kept me waiting. I reminded Him of my patience, of my daily sadhana, my prayers at dawn, and the fasts I kept during Ekadashi.
But the waiting grew heavier.
Then, one morning during Navratri, I saw a child outside the temple. She was five, maybe six. Her clothes were frayed, but her eyes sparkled like diya flames. She brought a cracked copper plate with crushed flowers and two rupees.
She looked up at me and said, “Will Ma Durga still hear me with this?”
I nodded, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Yes, beta. She always hears.”
The child folded her hands, shut her eyes tightly, and whispered her prayer. I saw no bitterness in her, no awareness of lack. Only faith.
It humbled me.
Later that evening, I opened the Bhagavad Gita—Krishna's timeless guidance—and my eyes fell on Chapter 4, Verse 11:
"Ye yathā māṁ prapadyante, tāṁs tathaiva bhajāmy aham" — As people approach Me, so I welcome them. All paths lead to Me.
I realized I had been performing prayers as transactions—if I do this, will You give me that? I was approaching God not with devotion but with a ledger.
That night, as the temple bells chimed for aarti, I let go. I told Krishna—not with drama but gently—that I was ready to walk with Him in His time. I felt something soft shift inside me. My breath slowed. My shoulders relaxed.
Weeks passed.
Nothing grand happened.
But, one quiet morning, my mother-in-law asked if she could take over the temple work for a while. “You’ve served long enough,” she said. “Go help Ramesh with his store. He needs your steadiness.”
I blinked.
Our store? It had been stalled for three years. But two days later, I stepped inside a dusty corner shop and touched the first row of wooden shelves my husband had built with his own hands.
From there, it began—slowly, gently.
Shraddhavan labhate jñānam — “The faithful find knowledge,” said the Gita again (Chapter 4, Verse 39). I had once mistaken waiting for emptiness. But faith had been fertilizing my roots all along.
I’m no longer afraid of timelines—not mine, not others’.
You are not falling behind. You are just being grown in ways unseen.
Time doesn’t rule faith.
It serves it.
I’m Radhika—daughter of temple priests, wife, mother, and a woman who feared she was running out of time.
At thirty-five, I still had not carved the life I had imagined. My friends boasted of careers abroad, marriages that sparkled in photographs, children who won awards. And me? I lived in my in-laws’ home in Varanasi, still helping with temple duties, still waiting for the small store my husband dreamed of opening.
Each night after dinner, I would sit by the Ganga—our sacred river—and whisper my frustrations to the stars. I asked Krishna—our mischievous God of compassion—why He kept me waiting. I reminded Him of my patience, of my daily sadhana, my prayers at dawn, and the fasts I kept during Ekadashi.
But the waiting grew heavier.
Then, one morning during Navratri, I saw a child outside the temple. She was five, maybe six. Her clothes were frayed, but her eyes sparkled like diya flames. She brought a cracked copper plate with crushed flowers and two rupees.
She looked up at me and said, “Will Ma Durga still hear me with this?”
I nodded, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Yes, beta. She always hears.”
The child folded her hands, shut her eyes tightly, and whispered her prayer. I saw no bitterness in her, no awareness of lack. Only faith.
It humbled me.
Later that evening, I opened the Bhagavad Gita—Krishna's timeless guidance—and my eyes fell on Chapter 4, Verse 11:
"Ye yathā māṁ prapadyante, tāṁs tathaiva bhajāmy aham" — As people approach Me, so I welcome them. All paths lead to Me.
I realized I had been performing prayers as transactions—if I do this, will You give me that? I was approaching God not with devotion but with a ledger.
That night, as the temple bells chimed for aarti, I let go. I told Krishna—not with drama but gently—that I was ready to walk with Him in His time. I felt something soft shift inside me. My breath slowed. My shoulders relaxed.
Weeks passed.
Nothing grand happened.
But, one quiet morning, my mother-in-law asked if she could take over the temple work for a while. “You’ve served long enough,” she said. “Go help Ramesh with his store. He needs your steadiness.”
I blinked.
Our store? It had been stalled for three years. But two days later, I stepped inside a dusty corner shop and touched the first row of wooden shelves my husband had built with his own hands.
From there, it began—slowly, gently.
Shraddhavan labhate jñānam — “The faithful find knowledge,” said the Gita again (Chapter 4, Verse 39). I had once mistaken waiting for emptiness. But faith had been fertilizing my roots all along.
I’m no longer afraid of timelines—not mine, not others’.
You are not falling behind. You are just being grown in ways unseen.
Time doesn’t rule faith.
It serves it.
