I still remember the morning I almost walked away from everything.
My name is Aarav. I was born into a family of weavers in Varanasi, near the banks of the sacred Ganga river. For generations, we had woven silk for saris offered at temples—our thread part of the prayers of others. Baba would say, “Yeh toh dharma hai, beta — this is our dharma, our sacred duty.” But after he passed, I began to question: was this still my path?
I was 28, and an offer came from a textile firm in Delhi. A big job. High pay. Air-conditioned office. No more strained eyes or dusty looms. My mother said nothing, only folded her hands in prayer when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I kept telling myself I was choosing progress. But fear had taken over — fear of poverty, of being "just" a weaver forever, of not keeping up. I was tired of being left behind.
On my last day in Varanasi, I sat near the river with Maa’s thread box in my lap. The Ganga flowed wide and silent, as if waiting. In the silence, a verse from the Bhagavad Gita floated up, one I'd heard as a child in temple but hadn’t thought of in years: “It is better to fail in one’s own dharma than to succeed in the dharma of another.” (Gita 3.35)
Tears came without warning.
Was I leaving because I loved something new… or because I feared being stuck where I was?
My grandfather used to say, “Dharma realigns the soul. Even when you feel lost, your duty will guide you back if you let it.” I hadn’t understood then. But that morning, watching a woman release flower-offerings into the river, a strange calm came over me. It wasn’t that all fear vanished. But I could suddenly hear something deeper than fear — a pull from within that whispered, stay.
Next morning, when the Delhi recruiter called, I told him no. My hand didn’t even shake.
Instead, I returned to the loom. I mended its broken threads, rubbed the wood with oil, and began again. It was not glamorous. It was not easy. But I finally slept that night.
Weeks later, a young bride came to our shop. She ran her hand over the sari I had just finished and smiled so brightly I had to look away. When her mother asked her what she saw in it, she said, “It feels like someone wove this with heart.”
I thought of Krishna — the avatar of Vishnu, who in the Mahabharata reminded Arjuna not to act out of fear or confusion, but to stand in his dharma with courage. I whispered a silent prayer of thanks.
I wasn’t afraid anymore.
I had chosen my path — and in doing so, I had found my way back to myself.
“Perform your duty, for action is better than inaction.” (Bhagavad Gita 3.8)
And so I weave — every thread a prayer, every day a quiet return.
I still remember the morning I almost walked away from everything.
My name is Aarav. I was born into a family of weavers in Varanasi, near the banks of the sacred Ganga river. For generations, we had woven silk for saris offered at temples—our thread part of the prayers of others. Baba would say, “Yeh toh dharma hai, beta — this is our dharma, our sacred duty.” But after he passed, I began to question: was this still my path?
I was 28, and an offer came from a textile firm in Delhi. A big job. High pay. Air-conditioned office. No more strained eyes or dusty looms. My mother said nothing, only folded her hands in prayer when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I kept telling myself I was choosing progress. But fear had taken over — fear of poverty, of being "just" a weaver forever, of not keeping up. I was tired of being left behind.
On my last day in Varanasi, I sat near the river with Maa’s thread box in my lap. The Ganga flowed wide and silent, as if waiting. In the silence, a verse from the Bhagavad Gita floated up, one I'd heard as a child in temple but hadn’t thought of in years: “It is better to fail in one’s own dharma than to succeed in the dharma of another.” (Gita 3.35)
Tears came without warning.
Was I leaving because I loved something new… or because I feared being stuck where I was?
My grandfather used to say, “Dharma realigns the soul. Even when you feel lost, your duty will guide you back if you let it.” I hadn’t understood then. But that morning, watching a woman release flower-offerings into the river, a strange calm came over me. It wasn’t that all fear vanished. But I could suddenly hear something deeper than fear — a pull from within that whispered, stay.
Next morning, when the Delhi recruiter called, I told him no. My hand didn’t even shake.
Instead, I returned to the loom. I mended its broken threads, rubbed the wood with oil, and began again. It was not glamorous. It was not easy. But I finally slept that night.
Weeks later, a young bride came to our shop. She ran her hand over the sari I had just finished and smiled so brightly I had to look away. When her mother asked her what she saw in it, she said, “It feels like someone wove this with heart.”
I thought of Krishna — the avatar of Vishnu, who in the Mahabharata reminded Arjuna not to act out of fear or confusion, but to stand in his dharma with courage. I whispered a silent prayer of thanks.
I wasn’t afraid anymore.
I had chosen my path — and in doing so, I had found my way back to myself.
“Perform your duty, for action is better than inaction.” (Bhagavad Gita 3.8)
And so I weave — every thread a prayer, every day a quiet return.
