I am Vijay, son of a schoolteacher from the village of Kottakkal. This story comes from the year I thought I had lost everything—hope, strength, even my sense of God.
I had just turned twenty-seven when my father passed away. He had been the pillar of our home, and without him, the walls seemed to tremble. I was the eldest of three, and suddenly, every responsibility fell onto my shoulders. My younger sister, Asha, still had school fees to be paid. My mother had taken to silence, and our fields, left untended for weeks, slowly yellowed under the sun.
Each day, I would rise before dawn and walk nearly five kilometers to my job at the post office, then return by evening to work the land. My feet ached, my hands blistered, my spirit sagged. One evening, walking back home along the dusty road, I sat under a neem tree and wept quietly. I wasn't just tired—I was hollow.
I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita then—Chapter 18, Verse 66. “Abandon all varieties of dharma and simply surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reactions. Do not fear.” But it felt too far from me, too difficult. Surrender? I barely had energy to breathe.
A few days later, I noticed something.
There was an old man who sold roasted groundnuts on the road outside the temple. Ever since my father's passing, I had walked past him without notice. That day, he smiled and called out.
“Postmaster-ji! For you. No charge.”
I shook my head. “I have no appetite today.”
“Take it for your sister,” he said, pressing the packet into my hand. “The gods walk with those who carry burdens.”
I didn’t understand his words then, but that night, I watched Asha eat from the paper cone. Later, she came into my room and sat silently beside me. Then, a small hand reached out and brushed mine.
“You're not alone, anna,” she whispered. “I pray to Ganesha every night for your smile to come back.”
Ganesha—the remover of obstacles, the guardian of beginnings. I had forgotten prayer, but she hadn’t.
The next morning, I went to the small shrine under the peepal tree. It was nothing grand—just a stone wrapped in red cloth, sacred to Hanuman, the monkey deity known for strength and loyalty. I sat there and just breathed. Not asking, not begging, just… sitting. And I heard within me—not audibly, but unmistakably—an assurance: Even tired feet walk with gods.
In the Ramayana, even Lord Rama, an incarnation of Vishnu, wandered the forests in exile. He walked with grief, yet never alone. The Mahabharata tells of Draupadi, whose prayers to Krishna in her darkest hour were heard even in silence.
That’s how I know now: God doesn’t speak only in temples or thunder. Sometimes He walks beside you as a child’s quiet faith, as an old man's kindness, as your own breath when you haven’t the words for prayer.
I still get tired.
But I never feel alone.
I am Vijay, son of a schoolteacher from the village of Kottakkal. This story comes from the year I thought I had lost everything—hope, strength, even my sense of God.
I had just turned twenty-seven when my father passed away. He had been the pillar of our home, and without him, the walls seemed to tremble. I was the eldest of three, and suddenly, every responsibility fell onto my shoulders. My younger sister, Asha, still had school fees to be paid. My mother had taken to silence, and our fields, left untended for weeks, slowly yellowed under the sun.
Each day, I would rise before dawn and walk nearly five kilometers to my job at the post office, then return by evening to work the land. My feet ached, my hands blistered, my spirit sagged. One evening, walking back home along the dusty road, I sat under a neem tree and wept quietly. I wasn't just tired—I was hollow.
I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita then—Chapter 18, Verse 66. “Abandon all varieties of dharma and simply surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reactions. Do not fear.” But it felt too far from me, too difficult. Surrender? I barely had energy to breathe.
A few days later, I noticed something.
There was an old man who sold roasted groundnuts on the road outside the temple. Ever since my father's passing, I had walked past him without notice. That day, he smiled and called out.
“Postmaster-ji! For you. No charge.”
I shook my head. “I have no appetite today.”
“Take it for your sister,” he said, pressing the packet into my hand. “The gods walk with those who carry burdens.”
I didn’t understand his words then, but that night, I watched Asha eat from the paper cone. Later, she came into my room and sat silently beside me. Then, a small hand reached out and brushed mine.
“You're not alone, anna,” she whispered. “I pray to Ganesha every night for your smile to come back.”
Ganesha—the remover of obstacles, the guardian of beginnings. I had forgotten prayer, but she hadn’t.
The next morning, I went to the small shrine under the peepal tree. It was nothing grand—just a stone wrapped in red cloth, sacred to Hanuman, the monkey deity known for strength and loyalty. I sat there and just breathed. Not asking, not begging, just… sitting. And I heard within me—not audibly, but unmistakably—an assurance: Even tired feet walk with gods.
In the Ramayana, even Lord Rama, an incarnation of Vishnu, wandered the forests in exile. He walked with grief, yet never alone. The Mahabharata tells of Draupadi, whose prayers to Krishna in her darkest hour were heard even in silence.
That’s how I know now: God doesn’t speak only in temples or thunder. Sometimes He walks beside you as a child’s quiet faith, as an old man's kindness, as your own breath when you haven’t the words for prayer.
I still get tired.
But I never feel alone.
