I was twenty-seven when my partnership collapsed—business and friendship, both.
My name is Dev, and for five years, I had built a small textile business with my childhood friend, Ravi. We promised each other we’d stay honest, stay equal. But when the orders became big and numbers even bigger, something shifted. He quietly moved the funds, changed contracts, and left me with debts I didn’t create.
I remember the early days, how we used to light lamps at our home altar before stepping out to work. I remembered his mother saying, “Karma answers not with punishment, but with reflection.” I also remember brushing it off at the time.
After it all fell apart, I moved back into my parents’ small flat in Indore. My room barely fit a bed. I could not sleep; shame and anger twisted every thought. At night, I would lie awake thinking, How could he? But louder than the betrayal was this echo inside: What did I do wrong to deserve this?
Weeks passed. Bitterness became my shadow, following me even into temple halls. One evening, while sitting quietly near the Gita Pathshala—that small reading group near the Hanuman temple—I heard an elderly man softly read from the Bhagavad Gita: “Whatever happens, happens for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good.”
I didn’t believe it then. Not really. But the words clung to me.
I started doing seva—small daily volunteer work at the temple. Sweeping floors, lining diyas (lamps). It helped me stay out of my head. One morning, while helping arrange prasad for the Sunday crowd, a young boy tapped my arm and offered me a laddu. He had no reason to; he just smiled and said, “You look tired, bhaiya.”
That simple kindness broke something in me.
Suddenly, I remembered what my grandfather told me when I was a child—how Lord Rama in the Ramayana lost His kingdom and was sent to the forest, not because of karma chasing Him, but so Dharma (righteousness) could shine brighter through Him. What looks like a setback might be the path itself.
So I made a decision. Every day, I’d do one act of dharma, no matter how small—feed a street dog, help my mother with her medicines, say thank you to the shopkeeper.
Months passed. I wasn’t trying to rebuild my business anymore. Just my self.
Then one day, I got a call from a former vendor—he’d heard I was running workshops on handloom weaving for neighborhood kids. He asked if I’d manage a small order for an NGO. Just ten scarves, nothing big.
But it grew.
Not overnight, not dramatically. But each step came like an echo of effort I didn't know I’d made. Karma wasn’t punishing me. It had been quietly rebuilding the foundation I never laid the first time: patience, service, sincerity.
Now, when I think of Ravi, I don’t feel rage. I feel reverence—for the lesson, for the loss.
As the Upanishads say, “From suffering comes rescue; from fire, purification.”
And from broken plans, better ones.
I was twenty-seven when my partnership collapsed—business and friendship, both.
My name is Dev, and for five years, I had built a small textile business with my childhood friend, Ravi. We promised each other we’d stay honest, stay equal. But when the orders became big and numbers even bigger, something shifted. He quietly moved the funds, changed contracts, and left me with debts I didn’t create.
I remember the early days, how we used to light lamps at our home altar before stepping out to work. I remembered his mother saying, “Karma answers not with punishment, but with reflection.” I also remember brushing it off at the time.
After it all fell apart, I moved back into my parents’ small flat in Indore. My room barely fit a bed. I could not sleep; shame and anger twisted every thought. At night, I would lie awake thinking, How could he? But louder than the betrayal was this echo inside: What did I do wrong to deserve this?
Weeks passed. Bitterness became my shadow, following me even into temple halls. One evening, while sitting quietly near the Gita Pathshala—that small reading group near the Hanuman temple—I heard an elderly man softly read from the Bhagavad Gita: “Whatever happens, happens for the good. Whatever is happening, is happening for the good.”
I didn’t believe it then. Not really. But the words clung to me.
I started doing seva—small daily volunteer work at the temple. Sweeping floors, lining diyas (lamps). It helped me stay out of my head. One morning, while helping arrange prasad for the Sunday crowd, a young boy tapped my arm and offered me a laddu. He had no reason to; he just smiled and said, “You look tired, bhaiya.”
That simple kindness broke something in me.
Suddenly, I remembered what my grandfather told me when I was a child—how Lord Rama in the Ramayana lost His kingdom and was sent to the forest, not because of karma chasing Him, but so Dharma (righteousness) could shine brighter through Him. What looks like a setback might be the path itself.
So I made a decision. Every day, I’d do one act of dharma, no matter how small—feed a street dog, help my mother with her medicines, say thank you to the shopkeeper.
Months passed. I wasn’t trying to rebuild my business anymore. Just my self.
Then one day, I got a call from a former vendor—he’d heard I was running workshops on handloom weaving for neighborhood kids. He asked if I’d manage a small order for an NGO. Just ten scarves, nothing big.
But it grew.
Not overnight, not dramatically. But each step came like an echo of effort I didn't know I’d made. Karma wasn’t punishing me. It had been quietly rebuilding the foundation I never laid the first time: patience, service, sincerity.
Now, when I think of Ravi, I don’t feel rage. I feel reverence—for the lesson, for the loss.
As the Upanishads say, “From suffering comes rescue; from fire, purification.”
And from broken plans, better ones.
