I’m Arun, a temple florist from Rishikesh, and this story begins during a time when I couldn’t catch my breath—even standing still.
Our shop is just a small square under a neem tree, not far from the Ganga. My wife and I string garlands of jasmine and marigold for worshippers from morning till night. During the Char Dham season, though, time seems to run faster. The street fills with honking buses, swollen crowds, urgent voices. People come bursting into the shop—some gentle, many not—asking for flowers, pushing money into my palm like that would hurry the blooms.
One especially noisy morning, I snapped at a pilgrim. Not loudly, but sharply. “Wait your turn,” I said, my voice tense. His little daughter, maybe six years old and dressed in a saffron kurta, looked up at me quietly and said, “But Uncle, why are you angry during God’s time?”
I froze. My fingers, tangled in jasmine thread, went still.
After they left, I sat down behind the cart and couldn’t move. I felt a strange shame—like I'd left puja halfway through. That little girl wasn’t angry, just curious. Her question echoed in my heart like a bell. Why was I angry during God’s time? Wasn’t every time God’s time?
That night, after closing, I went to the river with my mala—my prayer beads—and sat on the steps. The Ganga’s current is constant, but when you sit long enough, you stop hearing the waves. That’s what happened to me. The noise faded. Inside, too.
And then, slowly, a shloka from the Bhagavad Gita came back to me. I’d learned it as a boy:
"One who is even-minded in pain and pleasure, who dwells in the Self—such a yogi is dear to Me." (Gita 6.7)
I realized I had been chasing the world’s rhythm instead of my own. My peace was tied to whether business was smooth, customers behaved, the weather cooperated—but the Gita teaches that peace lives in what doesn’t change.
The next morning, I still opened the shop at dawn. But this time, I lit an agarbatti—an incense stick—and sat for a moment before starting. My wife raised an eyebrow, but smiled.
The rush came. The same as always. But I was slower inside. Each garland I strung became a breath. Each customer, a soul doing their best. When someone shoved a note in my hand, I smiled softly and said, “May your journey be blessed.”
In the Katha Upanishad, it says, “The calm mind sees the Self.” That stayed with me.
I still rush sometimes. I still get tired. But ever since that little girl’s words, I’ve kept ten petals aside every morning—one string I make without haste, just for Krishna, the one who calmed all of Arjuna's fears on the battlefield.
And before I speak, I ask myself, Will this come from stillness, or from noise?
That has made all the difference.
I’m Arun, a temple florist from Rishikesh, and this story begins during a time when I couldn’t catch my breath—even standing still.
Our shop is just a small square under a neem tree, not far from the Ganga. My wife and I string garlands of jasmine and marigold for worshippers from morning till night. During the Char Dham season, though, time seems to run faster. The street fills with honking buses, swollen crowds, urgent voices. People come bursting into the shop—some gentle, many not—asking for flowers, pushing money into my palm like that would hurry the blooms.
One especially noisy morning, I snapped at a pilgrim. Not loudly, but sharply. “Wait your turn,” I said, my voice tense. His little daughter, maybe six years old and dressed in a saffron kurta, looked up at me quietly and said, “But Uncle, why are you angry during God’s time?”
I froze. My fingers, tangled in jasmine thread, went still.
After they left, I sat down behind the cart and couldn’t move. I felt a strange shame—like I'd left puja halfway through. That little girl wasn’t angry, just curious. Her question echoed in my heart like a bell. Why was I angry during God’s time? Wasn’t every time God’s time?
That night, after closing, I went to the river with my mala—my prayer beads—and sat on the steps. The Ganga’s current is constant, but when you sit long enough, you stop hearing the waves. That’s what happened to me. The noise faded. Inside, too.
And then, slowly, a shloka from the Bhagavad Gita came back to me. I’d learned it as a boy:
"One who is even-minded in pain and pleasure, who dwells in the Self—such a yogi is dear to Me." (Gita 6.7)
I realized I had been chasing the world’s rhythm instead of my own. My peace was tied to whether business was smooth, customers behaved, the weather cooperated—but the Gita teaches that peace lives in what doesn’t change.
The next morning, I still opened the shop at dawn. But this time, I lit an agarbatti—an incense stick—and sat for a moment before starting. My wife raised an eyebrow, but smiled.
The rush came. The same as always. But I was slower inside. Each garland I strung became a breath. Each customer, a soul doing their best. When someone shoved a note in my hand, I smiled softly and said, “May your journey be blessed.”
In the Katha Upanishad, it says, “The calm mind sees the Self.” That stayed with me.
I still rush sometimes. I still get tired. But ever since that little girl’s words, I’ve kept ten petals aside every morning—one string I make without haste, just for Krishna, the one who calmed all of Arjuna's fears on the battlefield.
And before I speak, I ask myself, Will this come from stillness, or from noise?
That has made all the difference.
