I am Meera, the youngest daughter of a temple priest in Kanchipuram, and I have always been impatient—especially with the Divine.
My earliest memories are wrapped in the warm scent of sandalwood and camphor, watching my father chant morning prayers before the deity of Vishnu, the protector and sustainer of the universe. People came to him with hopes and tears. I would tuck beside him, small palms folded, watching how faith looked on others. But me? I wanted answers. Quickly.
When I turned twenty, I began praying for one thing: a job in Chennai. Not for fame or riches—just something that would let me support my family and escape the smallness of our life. Every morning, I stood before the shrine, lit the diya—our oil lamp of offering—and whispered the same request.
Months passed. Then a year. I prayed longer, fasted more, cried secretly under my shawl while sweeping the temple floors. “Why are You not listening?” I whispered in frustration to Vishnu’s calm, unchanging eyes.
One especially hot afternoon, I wandered to the old banyan tree near the back of the temple courtyard. There sat little Anvi—barely seven—tying bright hibiscus flowers into a garland. Her fingers were clumsy but determined.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s for Lakshmi,” she said, referring to the goddess of abundance and grace. “I told her my Amma is sick. So I’m making her something pretty.”
I watched the crooked little garland taking shape, petals falling, knot after knot. It was imperfect, but full of love. Suddenly, I remembered a verse my father used to chant from the Bhagavad Gita: “You have the right to work, but never to the fruits of the work.” (Bhagavad Gita 2.47)
That night, something shifted quietly in me. I kept praying, but without bargaining. I offered my efforts without timeline, like Anvi’s crooked garland — not beautiful, but real.
Nearly six months later, with no warning, a letter came. It was a part-time admin position at a small college in Chennai. Not a dream job. But it was enough. It was exactly what I’d asked for—just much later, in a way I hadn’t imagined.
The Taittiriya Upanishad says, “The one who knows Brahman is filled with joy, for from joy all beings are born… into joy they merge again.” It took me years to understand this joy isn't in getting things fast. It's the joy of knowing that the universe listens—even to the unseen, tired prayers of a frustrated girl in Kanchipuram.
Now, when I light the diya each morning, I still have hopes. But I no longer measure their worth by time. I just offer them.
And I know, in some patient corner of heaven, someone hears.
I am Meera, the youngest daughter of a temple priest in Kanchipuram, and I have always been impatient—especially with the Divine.
My earliest memories are wrapped in the warm scent of sandalwood and camphor, watching my father chant morning prayers before the deity of Vishnu, the protector and sustainer of the universe. People came to him with hopes and tears. I would tuck beside him, small palms folded, watching how faith looked on others. But me? I wanted answers. Quickly.
When I turned twenty, I began praying for one thing: a job in Chennai. Not for fame or riches—just something that would let me support my family and escape the smallness of our life. Every morning, I stood before the shrine, lit the diya—our oil lamp of offering—and whispered the same request.
Months passed. Then a year. I prayed longer, fasted more, cried secretly under my shawl while sweeping the temple floors. “Why are You not listening?” I whispered in frustration to Vishnu’s calm, unchanging eyes.
One especially hot afternoon, I wandered to the old banyan tree near the back of the temple courtyard. There sat little Anvi—barely seven—tying bright hibiscus flowers into a garland. Her fingers were clumsy but determined.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s for Lakshmi,” she said, referring to the goddess of abundance and grace. “I told her my Amma is sick. So I’m making her something pretty.”
I watched the crooked little garland taking shape, petals falling, knot after knot. It was imperfect, but full of love. Suddenly, I remembered a verse my father used to chant from the Bhagavad Gita: “You have the right to work, but never to the fruits of the work.” (Bhagavad Gita 2.47)
That night, something shifted quietly in me. I kept praying, but without bargaining. I offered my efforts without timeline, like Anvi’s crooked garland — not beautiful, but real.
Nearly six months later, with no warning, a letter came. It was a part-time admin position at a small college in Chennai. Not a dream job. But it was enough. It was exactly what I’d asked for—just much later, in a way I hadn’t imagined.
The Taittiriya Upanishad says, “The one who knows Brahman is filled with joy, for from joy all beings are born… into joy they merge again.” It took me years to understand this joy isn't in getting things fast. It's the joy of knowing that the universe listens—even to the unseen, tired prayers of a frustrated girl in Kanchipuram.
Now, when I light the diya each morning, I still have hopes. But I no longer measure their worth by time. I just offer them.
And I know, in some patient corner of heaven, someone hears.
