I was seventeen the first time I truly felt lost.
I had just moved to Delhi for college, leaving behind my quiet home in Ujjain — and, it seemed, every part of me that felt grounded. The noise of the city wasn’t just outside; it echoed somewhere inside me too. I stopped doing my daily puja. I stopped visiting temples. I told myself I was too busy studying, but the truth was, it felt like no one was watching anymore. No one was listening.
My grandmother used to say, “Dharma isn’t rules. Dharma is remembering who you are.” I didn’t understand it back then. At college, there were so many identities to wear — friend, student, intern — but none of them felt like mine. I drifted through classes and parties like I was underwater.
One evening, just before Diwali, I passed a narrow shop with a soft golden light inside. I would never have noticed it if a little bell hadn’t tinkled as someone exited. I stopped and peeked in.
It was a small puja store — wooden shelves stacked with idols, incense, and copper bowls. The kind of place my mother would spend hours in. I almost kept walking, but something in me paused. Maybe it was the smell of sandalwood, or the flicker of a small ghee lamp on the counter.
An old man behind the counter looked up and smiled — not the kind of smile that sells things. Just the kind that sees you.
I walked in and picked up a small brass murti of Lord Rama — the noble prince from the Ramayana, known for always following dharma, even when it meant pain and exile. The storekeeper didn’t say much, but as I turned to pay, he pressed a small copy of the Bhagavad Gita into my hand.
“No cost,” he said. “Only read it when your heart feels too tired.”
That night, I lit a single diya in my hostel room. I hadn’t done that in months. I didn’t light it for blessings. I just... missed something. I missed being held by something bigger than myself.
As I stared into the flame, a verse from the Gita surfaced — maybe from my childhood, maybe from grace: “Whenever dharma declines and adharma rises, I manifest Myself.” (Bhagavad Gita 4.7)
I didn’t know what dharma meant for me yet. But I realized it was still alive inside me. It hadn’t left. Like the river knows how to find the ocean, my soul still knew its way home.
I started rising before my classes and sitting quietly with the Gita. Just five minutes. Then ten. On weekends, I visited a small Hanuman temple — Hanuman, the devoted servant of Lord Rama, whose faith never wavered.
Bit by bit, the fog inside began to lift. Not all at once. But I no longer felt like I was disappearing.
Later, I read in the Chandogya Upanishad, “Tat Tvam Asi” — That Thou Art. The Divine isn’t elsewhere. It is who we are, underneath the forgetting.
I still get lost sometimes. But now I trust: Dharma remembers me, even when I forget it.
I was seventeen the first time I truly felt lost.
I had just moved to Delhi for college, leaving behind my quiet home in Ujjain — and, it seemed, every part of me that felt grounded. The noise of the city wasn’t just outside; it echoed somewhere inside me too. I stopped doing my daily puja. I stopped visiting temples. I told myself I was too busy studying, but the truth was, it felt like no one was watching anymore. No one was listening.
My grandmother used to say, “Dharma isn’t rules. Dharma is remembering who you are.” I didn’t understand it back then. At college, there were so many identities to wear — friend, student, intern — but none of them felt like mine. I drifted through classes and parties like I was underwater.
One evening, just before Diwali, I passed a narrow shop with a soft golden light inside. I would never have noticed it if a little bell hadn’t tinkled as someone exited. I stopped and peeked in.
It was a small puja store — wooden shelves stacked with idols, incense, and copper bowls. The kind of place my mother would spend hours in. I almost kept walking, but something in me paused. Maybe it was the smell of sandalwood, or the flicker of a small ghee lamp on the counter.
An old man behind the counter looked up and smiled — not the kind of smile that sells things. Just the kind that sees you.
I walked in and picked up a small brass murti of Lord Rama — the noble prince from the Ramayana, known for always following dharma, even when it meant pain and exile. The storekeeper didn’t say much, but as I turned to pay, he pressed a small copy of the Bhagavad Gita into my hand.
“No cost,” he said. “Only read it when your heart feels too tired.”
That night, I lit a single diya in my hostel room. I hadn’t done that in months. I didn’t light it for blessings. I just... missed something. I missed being held by something bigger than myself.
As I stared into the flame, a verse from the Gita surfaced — maybe from my childhood, maybe from grace: “Whenever dharma declines and adharma rises, I manifest Myself.” (Bhagavad Gita 4.7)
I didn’t know what dharma meant for me yet. But I realized it was still alive inside me. It hadn’t left. Like the river knows how to find the ocean, my soul still knew its way home.
I started rising before my classes and sitting quietly with the Gita. Just five minutes. Then ten. On weekends, I visited a small Hanuman temple — Hanuman, the devoted servant of Lord Rama, whose faith never wavered.
Bit by bit, the fog inside began to lift. Not all at once. But I no longer felt like I was disappearing.
Later, I read in the Chandogya Upanishad, “Tat Tvam Asi” — That Thou Art. The Divine isn’t elsewhere. It is who we are, underneath the forgetting.
I still get lost sometimes. But now I trust: Dharma remembers me, even when I forget it.
