I am Meena, daughter of a priest from a small village by the banks of the Yamuna. My earliest memories were pink sunrises over the river, my father’s chanting of shlokas, and the scent of jasmine in our courtyard. I always thought the path would be clear — puja in the mornings, helping around the temple in the afternoons, and someday supporting my father’s seva.
But when I left for university in Delhi, the world outside rewrote my map. Everyone had advice. “Build your brand.” “Find your market.” “Be useful.” I smiled and said yes. I adjusted. I adapted. I carved pieces of myself to make others comfortable.
On Sundays, I used to video call Appa. He began every call with “Did you chant today?” And every time, I lied or deflected.
The truth was, I hadn’t taken a single breath mindfully in months. I woke with a lump in my throat most days, shared filtered pieces of my life on social media, and replied “I’m good” before anyone could ask twice.
Then came the internship offer from a top tech firm. Everyone congratulated me. Appa simply nodded. That night I lay in bed, heart racing, unable to sleep. Nothing about it felt right, but I didn’t know how to say that out loud.
A few days later, I walked past a tiny temple nestled between two busy shops. Ganesh ji — the Remover of Obstacles — stood inside, his trunk curved left, eyes soft. Without planning to, I stepped in, removed my sandals, sat on the cool stone floor.
There was a boy, maybe eight years old, sitting beside me. He looked up from folding a prayer card and smiled.
“Do you pray every day, didi?” he asked. I blinked, caught off guard.
“I used to,” I whispered.
“My nani says when we stop listening to our soul, everything feels loud,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then he offered me his half-folded prayer, saying, “For you.”
Something inside me cracked open—something I didn’t even know had hardened.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna, “It is better to live your own dharma imperfectly than someone else’s perfectly.” That verse rose in me like breath after drowning. I had been tracing everyone else’s dharma, not mine.
I didn’t take the internship. I didn’t make a big announcement. I just started waking fifteen minutes earlier each day to recite morning mantras again. I began volunteering at a local temple on Sundays. I called Appa and said, “I want to learn the Durga Saptashati with you.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Now you are walking home.”
The Katha Upanishad says, “The soul is the charioteer, the body is the chariot, intellect the reins.” For so long, I had handed the reins to others. Slowly—I am learning to guide them myself again.
Now, when the world asks me to perform, I close my eyes and return to the still place inside where the Yamuna still flows. And I remember: I was never meant to be everyone’s map.
I already had my path. I just had to return to it.
I am Meena, daughter of a priest from a small village by the banks of the Yamuna. My earliest memories were pink sunrises over the river, my father’s chanting of shlokas, and the scent of jasmine in our courtyard. I always thought the path would be clear — puja in the mornings, helping around the temple in the afternoons, and someday supporting my father’s seva.
But when I left for university in Delhi, the world outside rewrote my map. Everyone had advice. “Build your brand.” “Find your market.” “Be useful.” I smiled and said yes. I adjusted. I adapted. I carved pieces of myself to make others comfortable.
On Sundays, I used to video call Appa. He began every call with “Did you chant today?” And every time, I lied or deflected.
The truth was, I hadn’t taken a single breath mindfully in months. I woke with a lump in my throat most days, shared filtered pieces of my life on social media, and replied “I’m good” before anyone could ask twice.
Then came the internship offer from a top tech firm. Everyone congratulated me. Appa simply nodded. That night I lay in bed, heart racing, unable to sleep. Nothing about it felt right, but I didn’t know how to say that out loud.
A few days later, I walked past a tiny temple nestled between two busy shops. Ganesh ji — the Remover of Obstacles — stood inside, his trunk curved left, eyes soft. Without planning to, I stepped in, removed my sandals, sat on the cool stone floor.
There was a boy, maybe eight years old, sitting beside me. He looked up from folding a prayer card and smiled.
“Do you pray every day, didi?” he asked. I blinked, caught off guard.
“I used to,” I whispered.
“My nani says when we stop listening to our soul, everything feels loud,” he said, matter-of-factly. Then he offered me his half-folded prayer, saying, “For you.”
Something inside me cracked open—something I didn’t even know had hardened.
In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna, “It is better to live your own dharma imperfectly than someone else’s perfectly.” That verse rose in me like breath after drowning. I had been tracing everyone else’s dharma, not mine.
I didn’t take the internship. I didn’t make a big announcement. I just started waking fifteen minutes earlier each day to recite morning mantras again. I began volunteering at a local temple on Sundays. I called Appa and said, “I want to learn the Durga Saptashati with you.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Now you are walking home.”
The Katha Upanishad says, “The soul is the charioteer, the body is the chariot, intellect the reins.” For so long, I had handed the reins to others. Slowly—I am learning to guide them myself again.
Now, when the world asks me to perform, I close my eyes and return to the still place inside where the Yamuna still flows. And I remember: I was never meant to be everyone’s map.
I already had my path. I just had to return to it.
