I was twelve when I first felt it — that heavy knot in my chest watching my cousin Arjun recite shlokas effortlessly in front of our whole family.
Everyone clapped. My uncle patted him on the back, saying how blessed a boy he was, how clearly Saraswati — the goddess of knowledge and wisdom — danced on his tongue. I tried to smile, but inside, I felt small.
My name is Dev. I loved music more than mantras back then. I’d wait till the house was quiet and pluck my veena softly, pretending I was invisible. But somehow, that never felt as worthy as Arjun’s perfect Sanskrit.
Comparison crept in like a thief. Every time someone praised Arjun, I counted my flaws — I wasn’t as disciplined, not as clever, not as early to rise. Slowly, I began avoiding my veena. I thought maybe I shouldn't waste time with strings and melodies. Maybe if I just studied harder, I’d finally be enough.
But truth doesn’t vanish just because we bury it. My fingers longed for the strings. Still, I pushed them away.
One visit to the temple changed everything. It was Kartik Purnima — the full moon night when we light hundreds of diyas for Lord Vishnu, the protector of the universe. I was standing near the pond behind the temple, trying not to frown as Arjun led yet another chant in the sanctum.
That’s when I noticed a little boy — maybe seven — trying to keep his diya afloat. He looked frustrated, his eyes brimming. I knelt beside him.
“Want help?” I asked.
He sniffed, nodding. So I steadied his hand, guiding the diya gently over the water. It shimmered under the moonlight.
“It’ll go farther if the flame stays calm,” I whispered. He smiled.
“Like your music?” he said.
I blinked.
“I heard you playing last year,” he added. “It made me happy, like… like Ganesha’s stories.”
Ganesha — the remover of obstacles, known for his love of music and sweets — was my favorite as a boy.
Something in me cracked open.
I looked out over the pond. The wind rustled through the trees. I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita: “It is better to do one’s own dharma, even imperfectly, than to do another’s perfectly” (Bhagavad Gita 3.35).
My dharma — my sacred path — was not Arjun’s. And it never had to be.
Later that night, I picked up my veena again. Just a simple melody. But the moment I did, it felt like offering my truest prayer. I played quietly, unseen. And yet, I felt fully seen.
Now, whenever I feel that weight rise — the pull of comparison — I remember that diya, floating peaceful and steady, lit by my own flame.
And that is enough.
Just as Taittiriya Upanishad says, “Be calm. Do your dharma. Speak the truth. Share the divine within you.”
I was never meant to echo someone else’s chant.
I was always meant to play my own song.
I was twelve when I first felt it — that heavy knot in my chest watching my cousin Arjun recite shlokas effortlessly in front of our whole family.
Everyone clapped. My uncle patted him on the back, saying how blessed a boy he was, how clearly Saraswati — the goddess of knowledge and wisdom — danced on his tongue. I tried to smile, but inside, I felt small.
My name is Dev. I loved music more than mantras back then. I’d wait till the house was quiet and pluck my veena softly, pretending I was invisible. But somehow, that never felt as worthy as Arjun’s perfect Sanskrit.
Comparison crept in like a thief. Every time someone praised Arjun, I counted my flaws — I wasn’t as disciplined, not as clever, not as early to rise. Slowly, I began avoiding my veena. I thought maybe I shouldn't waste time with strings and melodies. Maybe if I just studied harder, I’d finally be enough.
But truth doesn’t vanish just because we bury it. My fingers longed for the strings. Still, I pushed them away.
One visit to the temple changed everything. It was Kartik Purnima — the full moon night when we light hundreds of diyas for Lord Vishnu, the protector of the universe. I was standing near the pond behind the temple, trying not to frown as Arjun led yet another chant in the sanctum.
That’s when I noticed a little boy — maybe seven — trying to keep his diya afloat. He looked frustrated, his eyes brimming. I knelt beside him.
“Want help?” I asked.
He sniffed, nodding. So I steadied his hand, guiding the diya gently over the water. It shimmered under the moonlight.
“It’ll go farther if the flame stays calm,” I whispered. He smiled.
“Like your music?” he said.
I blinked.
“I heard you playing last year,” he added. “It made me happy, like… like Ganesha’s stories.”
Ganesha — the remover of obstacles, known for his love of music and sweets — was my favorite as a boy.
Something in me cracked open.
I looked out over the pond. The wind rustled through the trees. I remembered a verse from the Bhagavad Gita: “It is better to do one’s own dharma, even imperfectly, than to do another’s perfectly” (Bhagavad Gita 3.35).
My dharma — my sacred path — was not Arjun’s. And it never had to be.
Later that night, I picked up my veena again. Just a simple melody. But the moment I did, it felt like offering my truest prayer. I played quietly, unseen. And yet, I felt fully seen.
Now, whenever I feel that weight rise — the pull of comparison — I remember that diya, floating peaceful and steady, lit by my own flame.
And that is enough.
Just as Taittiriya Upanishad says, “Be calm. Do your dharma. Speak the truth. Share the divine within you.”
I was never meant to echo someone else’s chant.
I was always meant to play my own song.
