I was twenty-nine when I moved back to my parents' village in Tamil Nadu, jobless and ashamed.
After five years in the city trying to build a startup that didn’t survive its first monsoon, I returned with two bags and a thousand regrets. Each morning, I sat under the neem tree my grandfather had planted, staring at the dusty road, waiting for something—anything—to change. My pride ached more than my empty bank account.
“What now?” became the question I asked the wind. And it never answered.
My mother, ever gentle, never scolded. But I saw her watching me in the quiet moments—when I skipped my prayers, when I left my food half-eaten. One evening, as the temple bells rang just before sunset, I found myself sitting in the courtyard, palms open on my knees. Not asking. Not praying. Just breathing.
It reminded me of when I was a boy, running around the Saraswati temple during Navratri. Back then, breath came easy—faith did too. Amma would quote from the Bhagavad Gita when I was restless: “Whatever happened, happened for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good.” I used to roll my eyes.
Now, the words returned like a memory burned into my bones. I didn’t believe them yet. But they sat beside me in my stillness.
Weeks passed.
One afternoon, I walked to the edge of the rice fields. The air smelled of wet soil and sun-baked leaves. A farmer—I recognized him from school—looked up and waved. I waved back but kept walking. I wasn’t ready to answer the question in his squinting eyes.
Near the stream, I squatted and touched the water. Cold. Moving. Even now, in this dry season, the stream didn’t stop. I thought of the breath in my lungs. How it kept moving. How it rose and fell without needing me to control it. In the Upanishads, I once read: “As the spokes are held together in the hub, so is all this held together in the Self.” Maybe waiting wasn’t emptiness. Maybe it was gathering—pulling in breath, still and patient.
That night, I lit a small diya—an oil lamp—and placed it by the tulsi plant.
I said nothing.
But my breath felt different. Not lighter, necessarily. But quieter.
Days later, a child from the village brought me a broken toy to fix. I don’t know why—I wasn’t a mechanic. But I sat down and repaired it anyway. As I returned it to his hands, his eyes lit up like morning. And something cracked open in me.
Krishna, the divine guide of the Gita, always stood between duty and delay, urging action but honoring stillness. My season of waiting wasn’t a punishment. It was a long inhale of the soul.
Now, before sunrise, I sit under the neem tree again.
I still don’t know what comes next.
But I’m learning to wait as if it were puja—sacred offering.
Each breath, a tiny flame that never stops flickering.
Each morning, a whisper from the Divine: Breathe. Wait. I am here.
I was twenty-nine when I moved back to my parents' village in Tamil Nadu, jobless and ashamed.
After five years in the city trying to build a startup that didn’t survive its first monsoon, I returned with two bags and a thousand regrets. Each morning, I sat under the neem tree my grandfather had planted, staring at the dusty road, waiting for something—anything—to change. My pride ached more than my empty bank account.
“What now?” became the question I asked the wind. And it never answered.
My mother, ever gentle, never scolded. But I saw her watching me in the quiet moments—when I skipped my prayers, when I left my food half-eaten. One evening, as the temple bells rang just before sunset, I found myself sitting in the courtyard, palms open on my knees. Not asking. Not praying. Just breathing.
It reminded me of when I was a boy, running around the Saraswati temple during Navratri. Back then, breath came easy—faith did too. Amma would quote from the Bhagavad Gita when I was restless: “Whatever happened, happened for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good.” I used to roll my eyes.
Now, the words returned like a memory burned into my bones. I didn’t believe them yet. But they sat beside me in my stillness.
Weeks passed.
One afternoon, I walked to the edge of the rice fields. The air smelled of wet soil and sun-baked leaves. A farmer—I recognized him from school—looked up and waved. I waved back but kept walking. I wasn’t ready to answer the question in his squinting eyes.
Near the stream, I squatted and touched the water. Cold. Moving. Even now, in this dry season, the stream didn’t stop. I thought of the breath in my lungs. How it kept moving. How it rose and fell without needing me to control it. In the Upanishads, I once read: “As the spokes are held together in the hub, so is all this held together in the Self.” Maybe waiting wasn’t emptiness. Maybe it was gathering—pulling in breath, still and patient.
That night, I lit a small diya—an oil lamp—and placed it by the tulsi plant.
I said nothing.
But my breath felt different. Not lighter, necessarily. But quieter.
Days later, a child from the village brought me a broken toy to fix. I don’t know why—I wasn’t a mechanic. But I sat down and repaired it anyway. As I returned it to his hands, his eyes lit up like morning. And something cracked open in me.
Krishna, the divine guide of the Gita, always stood between duty and delay, urging action but honoring stillness. My season of waiting wasn’t a punishment. It was a long inhale of the soul.
Now, before sunrise, I sit under the neem tree again.
I still don’t know what comes next.
But I’m learning to wait as if it were puja—sacred offering.
Each breath, a tiny flame that never stops flickering.
Each morning, a whisper from the Divine: Breathe. Wait. I am here.
