I am Nidhi, daughter of a modest temple priest from Varanasi. For as long as I can remember, my dream was to become a classical dancer, like the ones I watched perform during Navratri—arms outstretched to the gods, anklets ringing like prayers. I trained in secret between housework and school, my feet bruised but heart light. I believed that if my heart stayed true, the Divine would open a way.
When I turned nineteen, I was accepted into a prestigious dance academy in Mumbai. I still remember the feeling—like the moment Ganga touches one’s fingers for the first time, cool and blessing and real. My father gave a quiet nod, trying to hide the fear in his eyes behind a weak smile. He had little to give, but he gave me his trust.
But only a few weeks into the program, I injured my ankle—badly. The doctor said I might never dance again, at least not professionally. My dream shattered like an old diya fallen on stone. All the nights I offered my practice as puja to Shiva — the god of destruction and transformation — now mocked me.
I stayed in my Mumbai hostel for days, staring at the ceiling, praying half-heartedly. “Why show me the river,” I whispered, “if you only meant for me to drown in it?”
One night, I walked to the small Shiv Mandir near the academy. The priest there — a gentle man who never asked questions — let me sit in the back while he did aarti. I watched the flame swirl in circles, steady and alive. A verse from the Bhagavad Gita floated into my memory: "Whatever happened, happened for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good. Whatever will happen, will also be for the good." (Gita 2.47)
I don’t know why, but I started crying—not loudly, just enough to feel something soften.
Weeks passed. I couldn’t dance, but I stayed. I offered help in the academy office, and slowly they let me assist with choreography notes. Soon, I was helping other students with their form, guiding from the side with knowledge my body once carried.
One new girl, maybe fifteen, struggled with her rhythm. I sat with her during lunch and taught her a small mudra—the ‘Alapadma’, the blooming lotus. She smiled as she got it right, as though someone had handed her her own hidden dream.
And that’s when I understood.
Faith doesn’t always rebuild the old. Sometimes, it builds unseen paths out of broken stones. Just like Krishna advised Arjuna in the Mahabharata—to act with devotion, not attachment to results.
My dream had shattered—but that didn't mean it had died.
Now, I see myself in every new dancer who enters. I light agarbattis each morning and whisper a quiet prayer, remembering also the Taittiriya Upanishad's wisdom: “From joy we are born, in joy we live, and unto joy we return.”
My path didn’t end. It just turned, unseen, because faith—like the river—knows how to flow around obstacles. Even when we don’t.
I am Nidhi, daughter of a modest temple priest from Varanasi. For as long as I can remember, my dream was to become a classical dancer, like the ones I watched perform during Navratri—arms outstretched to the gods, anklets ringing like prayers. I trained in secret between housework and school, my feet bruised but heart light. I believed that if my heart stayed true, the Divine would open a way.
When I turned nineteen, I was accepted into a prestigious dance academy in Mumbai. I still remember the feeling—like the moment Ganga touches one’s fingers for the first time, cool and blessing and real. My father gave a quiet nod, trying to hide the fear in his eyes behind a weak smile. He had little to give, but he gave me his trust.
But only a few weeks into the program, I injured my ankle—badly. The doctor said I might never dance again, at least not professionally. My dream shattered like an old diya fallen on stone. All the nights I offered my practice as puja to Shiva — the god of destruction and transformation — now mocked me.
I stayed in my Mumbai hostel for days, staring at the ceiling, praying half-heartedly. “Why show me the river,” I whispered, “if you only meant for me to drown in it?”
One night, I walked to the small Shiv Mandir near the academy. The priest there — a gentle man who never asked questions — let me sit in the back while he did aarti. I watched the flame swirl in circles, steady and alive. A verse from the Bhagavad Gita floated into my memory: "Whatever happened, happened for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good. Whatever will happen, will also be for the good." (Gita 2.47)
I don’t know why, but I started crying—not loudly, just enough to feel something soften.
Weeks passed. I couldn’t dance, but I stayed. I offered help in the academy office, and slowly they let me assist with choreography notes. Soon, I was helping other students with their form, guiding from the side with knowledge my body once carried.
One new girl, maybe fifteen, struggled with her rhythm. I sat with her during lunch and taught her a small mudra—the ‘Alapadma’, the blooming lotus. She smiled as she got it right, as though someone had handed her her own hidden dream.
And that’s when I understood.
Faith doesn’t always rebuild the old. Sometimes, it builds unseen paths out of broken stones. Just like Krishna advised Arjuna in the Mahabharata—to act with devotion, not attachment to results.
My dream had shattered—but that didn't mean it had died.
Now, I see myself in every new dancer who enters. I light agarbattis each morning and whisper a quiet prayer, remembering also the Taittiriya Upanishad's wisdom: “From joy we are born, in joy we live, and unto joy we return.”
My path didn’t end. It just turned, unseen, because faith—like the river—knows how to flow around obstacles. Even when we don’t.
