My name is Meera. I used to believe broken hearts could never be mended. Mine shattered the day my husband left — first in mind, then in body, and finally in soul. He walked out without even looking back. Just the soft thud of the door closed twenty-three years of shared dreams.
For weeks, I barely spoke. I couldn’t even bring myself to do my japa — the daily repetition of Krishna’s name that used to soothe me. Krishna, the flute-playing divine cowherd from the Bhagavad Gita and the Mahabharata, had always been my quiet companion. But during that time, I felt only silence inside, cold and dry.
Then one evening, as I was cleaning the shelves reluctantly, I found an old picture of my mother. She was standing in front of our village temple, holding one of my hands — the other was holding a basket of jasmine she had picked to offer to Lord Krishna. I must have been five or six. A sudden memory rushed over me like a warm breeze: her soft voice singing, "Bhakti mein hi mukti hai — In devotion lies our freedom."
That night, I returned to the small altar in the corner of my home. I dusted off the murti — the little statue — of Krishna and lit a single diya, a small oil lamp. My hands trembled. But as soon as I spoke just one name — “Krishna” — my voice cracked, and the tears poured freely.
I didn't ask Him for anything. I didn’t need to.
Every night after that, I began offering him something small. A piece of fruit. A whisper of a chant. My favorite sweet, even if it hurt to make it for just me. And slowly, something strange started happening — I felt less alone. Not because everything around me got fixed, but because something inside me felt gently held.
The Bhagavad Gita says, “Whoever offers Me with devotion a leaf, a flower, a fruit, or water — I accept it with love” (Gita 9.26). I had offered nothing but my hurting heart. And somehow, Krishna accepted even that.
On the 40th night, as bells rang from a nearby temple, I was folding laundry when a neighbor’s little girl ran in, tugging my sari. She had drawn something — a bright blue figure with a flute, surrounded by hearts. “It’s your Krishna-ji!” she beamed. I smiled for the first time without forcing it.
In the Chandogya Upanishad, it says, “As is one’s love, so is one’s faith; as is one’s faith, so is one’s being.” I didn’t understand it fully back then. But I had begun to feel it.
Love offered from a broken heart isn’t wasted. The Divine receives it and returns it—not as miracles, not with fanfare—but as warmth in your chest, as music in the silence, as peace where there used to be pain.
Today, I still live alone in my house. My husband never came back. But I’m no longer heartbroken.
Because in loving Him, I was quietly healed.
My name is Meera. I used to believe broken hearts could never be mended. Mine shattered the day my husband left — first in mind, then in body, and finally in soul. He walked out without even looking back. Just the soft thud of the door closed twenty-three years of shared dreams.
For weeks, I barely spoke. I couldn’t even bring myself to do my japa — the daily repetition of Krishna’s name that used to soothe me. Krishna, the flute-playing divine cowherd from the Bhagavad Gita and the Mahabharata, had always been my quiet companion. But during that time, I felt only silence inside, cold and dry.
Then one evening, as I was cleaning the shelves reluctantly, I found an old picture of my mother. She was standing in front of our village temple, holding one of my hands — the other was holding a basket of jasmine she had picked to offer to Lord Krishna. I must have been five or six. A sudden memory rushed over me like a warm breeze: her soft voice singing, "Bhakti mein hi mukti hai — In devotion lies our freedom."
That night, I returned to the small altar in the corner of my home. I dusted off the murti — the little statue — of Krishna and lit a single diya, a small oil lamp. My hands trembled. But as soon as I spoke just one name — “Krishna” — my voice cracked, and the tears poured freely.
I didn't ask Him for anything. I didn’t need to.
Every night after that, I began offering him something small. A piece of fruit. A whisper of a chant. My favorite sweet, even if it hurt to make it for just me. And slowly, something strange started happening — I felt less alone. Not because everything around me got fixed, but because something inside me felt gently held.
The Bhagavad Gita says, “Whoever offers Me with devotion a leaf, a flower, a fruit, or water — I accept it with love” (Gita 9.26). I had offered nothing but my hurting heart. And somehow, Krishna accepted even that.
On the 40th night, as bells rang from a nearby temple, I was folding laundry when a neighbor’s little girl ran in, tugging my sari. She had drawn something — a bright blue figure with a flute, surrounded by hearts. “It’s your Krishna-ji!” she beamed. I smiled for the first time without forcing it.
In the Chandogya Upanishad, it says, “As is one’s love, so is one’s faith; as is one’s faith, so is one’s being.” I didn’t understand it fully back then. But I had begun to feel it.
Love offered from a broken heart isn’t wasted. The Divine receives it and returns it—not as miracles, not with fanfare—but as warmth in your chest, as music in the silence, as peace where there used to be pain.
Today, I still live alone in my house. My husband never came back. But I’m no longer heartbroken.
Because in loving Him, I was quietly healed.
