I had never cried over a lunchbox before.
But on that first morning in Vancouver, standing in a quiet kitchen that did not smell of masalas or hot ghee, I clutched the plastic container and wept. My name is Meenal, and I had just moved halfway across the world for a new job, leaving behind my parents, my temple routine, and the humid hug of Mumbai.
Back home, every morning began with the sound of conch shells at the mandir down the street. Here, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. The silence made me realize how deeply I missed the rhythm of what I knew. As I spooned rice into the lunchbox, I remembered Ma placing a tiny bit of kheer on top of my tiffin in school — “for Lakshmi’s blessings,” she’d say. Now even her reminders were half a world away.
I wasn’t afraid of work. I was afraid of losing myself — of forgetting the words of my evening prayers, of becoming someone who only turned to the Divine when I was scared.
That night, I sat cross-legged on the floor of my bare apartment. My eyes fell on the travel-sized Gita Ma had tucked into my suitcase. I opened it with stiff fingers, hoping to find something that felt like a voice.
And there it was: "You have the right to perform your actions, but not the fruits thereof." — Bhagavad Gita 2.47. I silently repeated the verse. Actions, not outcomes — that was the dharma Krishna speaks of. Ma used to say, “Change isn’t against dharma, beta. It unfolds the next step of it.”
I lay back on the wooden floor, tears drying. Maybe this wasn’t a severing after all. Maybe it was the beginning of a new offering.
The next morning, I woke early and lit a single diya — a small oil lamp — placing it before a tiny postcard of Shiva, the god of transformation and destroyer of illusion. I murmured the Mahamrityunjaya mantra as the sun crept in through the window. The light flickered, warming the cold walls.
Weeks passed. Slowly, the ache inside loosened. I found an Indian grocery store near the train station. The auntie there smiled when I said “namaste,” and tucked a few cardamom pods into my bag “for prasad,” without charge. That small kindness made my throat tighten.
On Diwali, I invited two other newcomers to light diyas with me. None of us had family here, but in our simple, shared prayers — in the laughter around the stovetop as we fumbled with laddoos — I felt the Divine pulsing gently between us.
The Upanishads say, “As rivers flow into the ocean and lose their names, so the knower merges with the Supreme.” Change stripped my name, my comfort, my rhythms. But in its place, a new chapter of dharma quietly bloomed.
I still carry that lunchbox to work. But now, it always holds a sliver of kheer. Not because Ma is here to make it — but because her offering became mine.
I had never cried over a lunchbox before.
But on that first morning in Vancouver, standing in a quiet kitchen that did not smell of masalas or hot ghee, I clutched the plastic container and wept. My name is Meenal, and I had just moved halfway across the world for a new job, leaving behind my parents, my temple routine, and the humid hug of Mumbai.
Back home, every morning began with the sound of conch shells at the mandir down the street. Here, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator. The silence made me realize how deeply I missed the rhythm of what I knew. As I spooned rice into the lunchbox, I remembered Ma placing a tiny bit of kheer on top of my tiffin in school — “for Lakshmi’s blessings,” she’d say. Now even her reminders were half a world away.
I wasn’t afraid of work. I was afraid of losing myself — of forgetting the words of my evening prayers, of becoming someone who only turned to the Divine when I was scared.
That night, I sat cross-legged on the floor of my bare apartment. My eyes fell on the travel-sized Gita Ma had tucked into my suitcase. I opened it with stiff fingers, hoping to find something that felt like a voice.
And there it was: "You have the right to perform your actions, but not the fruits thereof." — Bhagavad Gita 2.47. I silently repeated the verse. Actions, not outcomes — that was the dharma Krishna speaks of. Ma used to say, “Change isn’t against dharma, beta. It unfolds the next step of it.”
I lay back on the wooden floor, tears drying. Maybe this wasn’t a severing after all. Maybe it was the beginning of a new offering.
The next morning, I woke early and lit a single diya — a small oil lamp — placing it before a tiny postcard of Shiva, the god of transformation and destroyer of illusion. I murmured the Mahamrityunjaya mantra as the sun crept in through the window. The light flickered, warming the cold walls.
Weeks passed. Slowly, the ache inside loosened. I found an Indian grocery store near the train station. The auntie there smiled when I said “namaste,” and tucked a few cardamom pods into my bag “for prasad,” without charge. That small kindness made my throat tighten.
On Diwali, I invited two other newcomers to light diyas with me. None of us had family here, but in our simple, shared prayers — in the laughter around the stovetop as we fumbled with laddoos — I felt the Divine pulsing gently between us.
The Upanishads say, “As rivers flow into the ocean and lose their names, so the knower merges with the Supreme.” Change stripped my name, my comfort, my rhythms. But in its place, a new chapter of dharma quietly bloomed.
I still carry that lunchbox to work. But now, it always holds a sliver of kheer. Not because Ma is here to make it — but because her offering became mine.
