I am Arundhati, a schoolteacher from Nashik, and for a long time, I didn’t believe in “healing.” I believed in surviving, pushing through storms by gritting my teeth. But healing? That sounded like something for people with fewer scars.
When my husband left suddenly, after twenty years of marriage, leaving only a note and silence behind, I thought I would die from the bitterness. Not from heartbreak, but from the sour anger that settled into my chest like a rotting fruit. I still went to school, taught math, nodded politely—but inside, I was a frozen wound.
My mother, a quiet woman steeped in devotion, would still whisper Krishna’s name each morning. Krishna—the playful, blue-skinned deity known for his unconditional love. Once, in the kitchen while I was angrily stirring dal, she said softly, “You can cry in front of Krishna too, beta. He doesn't mind.”
I laughed bitterly. What divine being allowed a life like mine?
But one evening, more out of exhaustion than belief, I walked alone to the banks of the Godavari river. The sun was falling behind the palms. I could hear temple bells ringing in the distance and the sound of women singing bhajans—devotional songs—in a nearby mandir.
I don't know what pulled me toward that singing, but I sat on the outer steps of the temple.
Their voices were not perfect, but they were full. Full of love, longing… peace. I closed my eyes. The song was simple—“Radhe Govinda, Radhe Govinda…”—invoking Krishna and Radha. The repetition, the softness, the feeling of surrender—my chest began to ache strangely.
I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita: “Deliverance comes through loving devotion. Even the most sinful are purified through unwavering love for Me” (Bhagavad Gita 9.30-31).
Could I offer love like that? Even from my broken place?
The next evening, I returned. And the next. I didn’t sing at first. I just listened. Then, one evening, without thinking, I whispered “Krishna” under my breath—and wept without hiding.
Something softened in me. Not everything, not all at once—but the bitterness began to melt, the way ghee melts into warm rice. Quietly, gradually.
In the Ramayana, when Hanuman is asked how he relates to Lord Rama, he says, “When I identify with the body, I am Your servant; when I identify with the soul, I am part of You” (Ramayana, Uttara Kanda). That line stayed with me as I slowly surrendered not just my pain, but also the belief that I needed to “fix” anything. I could just be a devotee. I could just love.
Some days I still feel the sting. Life hasn't rewritten itself. But this path of bhakti—this simple offering of love—has become my soft place.
Every morning now, I light incense before a small picture of Krishna playing his flute, and quietly say, “I’m still hurting, but I’m here.” And somehow, that is enough.
Because bhakti doesn’t erase the pain—it wraps it in love until peace begins to grow.
I am Arundhati, a schoolteacher from Nashik, and for a long time, I didn’t believe in “healing.” I believed in surviving, pushing through storms by gritting my teeth. But healing? That sounded like something for people with fewer scars.
When my husband left suddenly, after twenty years of marriage, leaving only a note and silence behind, I thought I would die from the bitterness. Not from heartbreak, but from the sour anger that settled into my chest like a rotting fruit. I still went to school, taught math, nodded politely—but inside, I was a frozen wound.
My mother, a quiet woman steeped in devotion, would still whisper Krishna’s name each morning. Krishna—the playful, blue-skinned deity known for his unconditional love. Once, in the kitchen while I was angrily stirring dal, she said softly, “You can cry in front of Krishna too, beta. He doesn't mind.”
I laughed bitterly. What divine being allowed a life like mine?
But one evening, more out of exhaustion than belief, I walked alone to the banks of the Godavari river. The sun was falling behind the palms. I could hear temple bells ringing in the distance and the sound of women singing bhajans—devotional songs—in a nearby mandir.
I don't know what pulled me toward that singing, but I sat on the outer steps of the temple.
Their voices were not perfect, but they were full. Full of love, longing… peace. I closed my eyes. The song was simple—“Radhe Govinda, Radhe Govinda…”—invoking Krishna and Radha. The repetition, the softness, the feeling of surrender—my chest began to ache strangely.
I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita: “Deliverance comes through loving devotion. Even the most sinful are purified through unwavering love for Me” (Bhagavad Gita 9.30-31).
Could I offer love like that? Even from my broken place?
The next evening, I returned. And the next. I didn’t sing at first. I just listened. Then, one evening, without thinking, I whispered “Krishna” under my breath—and wept without hiding.
Something softened in me. Not everything, not all at once—but the bitterness began to melt, the way ghee melts into warm rice. Quietly, gradually.
In the Ramayana, when Hanuman is asked how he relates to Lord Rama, he says, “When I identify with the body, I am Your servant; when I identify with the soul, I am part of You” (Ramayana, Uttara Kanda). That line stayed with me as I slowly surrendered not just my pain, but also the belief that I needed to “fix” anything. I could just be a devotee. I could just love.
Some days I still feel the sting. Life hasn't rewritten itself. But this path of bhakti—this simple offering of love—has become my soft place.
Every morning now, I light incense before a small picture of Krishna playing his flute, and quietly say, “I’m still hurting, but I’m here.” And somehow, that is enough.
Because bhakti doesn’t erase the pain—it wraps it in love until peace begins to grow.
