My name is Aruna. I come from a small village near the banks of the Godavari River, where the seasons guide our lives more than the calendar ever has. I want to tell you about a monsoon that never seemed to come—and what it taught me.
When my husband and I planted our first crop after marriage, the earth was dry but hopeful. The sky had been silent, but the elders assured us the rains would come. “Wait with dhairya—patience,” my father said, “as your mother did, and as her mother before her.” But as days passed and the clouds kept their distance, I felt that patience turn into fear.
Every morning I would run to the door at dawn, searching the horizon for even a hint of gray. But the skies stayed clear, taunting me. At night, I would sit by our tulsi plant—sacred to Vishnu, the preserver among the gods—and whisper prayers from the Bhagavad Gita. “Be steadfast in yoga, Arjuna. Perform your duty and abandon all attachment to success or failure,” I would recite in my mind (Bhagavad Gita 2.47). But I wasn't feeling steadfast. I was unraveling.
One morning, I broke. I sat in the field and wept. In my heart, I accused the gods of indifference. “What is the use of shraddha—faith—when the seeds just sit there, dying?” I don't know how long I sat there, but I remember what finally moved me. A little girl from the village came by, humming. I recognized her—Leela. She sprinkled something onto the parched soil. “What are you doing?” I asked, wiping my face quickly.
“Feeding my flowers,” she said proudly, holding out a small plate of rice and ghee. I wanted to tell her flowers need water, not offerings. But then she said quietly, “Ma says these flowers are sleeping now. But they will wake when Bhagavan says it’s time.”
Her words pulled something in my heart. I remembered a passage from the Chandogya Upanishad: “As fire lies hidden in wood, so does the Divine dwell within all things, awaiting the right time to emerge” (6.1.4). Could I wait like that—with hope, not just fear? Could I serve the land faithfully, even without seeing the fruit yet?
From the next day, I began working again—not to force an outcome but to honor the process. I watered the soil with reuse from the well, cleared the weeds, and whispered mantras as I walked between rows. Whenever I felt despair creeping back, I remembered the Mahabharata—how even Bhima had to wait years to avenge injustice, holding his fury with discipline.
Weeks passed.
Then one afternoon, clouds gathered—not suddenly, but gently, just as the Gita teaches: like the rising of wisdom after deep sorrow (2.65). The first rain was thin, like a whispered promise. But it reached the roots.
And the garden grew.
Not just of crops—but of trust, deep within me.
I learned patience isn’t just waiting. It’s believing that the Divine is silently at work, even under dry earth.
Waiting, too, is a form of prayer.
My name is Aruna. I come from a small village near the banks of the Godavari River, where the seasons guide our lives more than the calendar ever has. I want to tell you about a monsoon that never seemed to come—and what it taught me.
When my husband and I planted our first crop after marriage, the earth was dry but hopeful. The sky had been silent, but the elders assured us the rains would come. “Wait with dhairya—patience,” my father said, “as your mother did, and as her mother before her.” But as days passed and the clouds kept their distance, I felt that patience turn into fear.
Every morning I would run to the door at dawn, searching the horizon for even a hint of gray. But the skies stayed clear, taunting me. At night, I would sit by our tulsi plant—sacred to Vishnu, the preserver among the gods—and whisper prayers from the Bhagavad Gita. “Be steadfast in yoga, Arjuna. Perform your duty and abandon all attachment to success or failure,” I would recite in my mind (Bhagavad Gita 2.47). But I wasn't feeling steadfast. I was unraveling.
One morning, I broke. I sat in the field and wept. In my heart, I accused the gods of indifference. “What is the use of shraddha—faith—when the seeds just sit there, dying?” I don't know how long I sat there, but I remember what finally moved me. A little girl from the village came by, humming. I recognized her—Leela. She sprinkled something onto the parched soil. “What are you doing?” I asked, wiping my face quickly.
“Feeding my flowers,” she said proudly, holding out a small plate of rice and ghee. I wanted to tell her flowers need water, not offerings. But then she said quietly, “Ma says these flowers are sleeping now. But they will wake when Bhagavan says it’s time.”
Her words pulled something in my heart. I remembered a passage from the Chandogya Upanishad: “As fire lies hidden in wood, so does the Divine dwell within all things, awaiting the right time to emerge” (6.1.4). Could I wait like that—with hope, not just fear? Could I serve the land faithfully, even without seeing the fruit yet?
From the next day, I began working again—not to force an outcome but to honor the process. I watered the soil with reuse from the well, cleared the weeds, and whispered mantras as I walked between rows. Whenever I felt despair creeping back, I remembered the Mahabharata—how even Bhima had to wait years to avenge injustice, holding his fury with discipline.
Weeks passed.
Then one afternoon, clouds gathered—not suddenly, but gently, just as the Gita teaches: like the rising of wisdom after deep sorrow (2.65). The first rain was thin, like a whispered promise. But it reached the roots.
And the garden grew.
Not just of crops—but of trust, deep within me.
I learned patience isn’t just waiting. It’s believing that the Divine is silently at work, even under dry earth.
Waiting, too, is a form of prayer.
