I am Madhavi, daughter of a temple priest from the village of Paithan, near the banks of the Godavari river. I’m the kind of person who once thought she had ruined her future with a single mistake.
It was during Kartik Purnima — the full moon festival — when my voice faltered during the evening bhajan. I was leading it for the first time, entrusted by my father. But halfway through the prayer, my throat closed, the melody slipped, and I stumbled in front of the crowd. My ears burned with shame. I bowed out early, tears mingling with the sandalwood paste on my forehead.
That night, I sat alone behind the temple, under the peepal tree, trying to quiet the thoughts racing through me. I had disappointed everyone, especially Baba. For days after, I avoided the temple. I stopped touching the harmonium. I couldn’t bear the sound of devotion when I felt so disconnected from it.
But then something happened.
It was early morning, close to Amrit Vela — the sacred pre-dawn hour. I had gone to the river to collect flowers for pooja, though I didn’t know why I was still doing it. The air smelled damp with dew, and the fog moved like breath over the water.
As I bent down to gather fallen hibiscus, I noticed an old woman sitting nearby, whispering Sanskrit verses to herself. Her voice was cracked but steady — worn like the base of an old lamp. One verse caught in my heart:
"Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana” — You have the right to perform your actions, but not to the results thereof. (Bhagavad Gita 2.47)
I froze.
I had heard that teaching hundreds of times. But for the first time, it actually reached me. My bhajan was an offering, not a performance. I had tied the value of my effort to applause, to approval. But Krishna — the divine protector and charioteer of Arjuna — never asked that of me. Only sincerity.
That morning, I walked back slowly, the lesson blooming in me.
Later, I stumbled upon more words in a tattered copy of the Upanishads that Baba had left open: “Asato ma sad gamaya” — Lead me from untruth to truth. (Brihadaranyaka Upanishad 1.3.28)
The lie I had believed was that failure meant unworthiness. But the truth? I was still on the path. Even Arjuna had his moment of collapse on the battlefield in the Mahabharata — and yet, that’s where his true journey into clarity began.
I started singing again, quietly at first, after the temple had emptied. Over time, people joined. Not for me, but for the feeling. Something opened.
That’s the thread of the divine plan — what I once thought was a failure was just a bend in the path. Just like Ganesha, remover of obstacles, sometimes places them too — not to punish us, but to re-angle our hearts towards the real goal.
So if you’ve stumbled too, remember: your story isn’t over. It’s unfolding — like the lotuses that bloom only from the muddy water.
Like mine did.
I am Madhavi, daughter of a temple priest from the village of Paithan, near the banks of the Godavari river. I’m the kind of person who once thought she had ruined her future with a single mistake.
It was during Kartik Purnima — the full moon festival — when my voice faltered during the evening bhajan. I was leading it for the first time, entrusted by my father. But halfway through the prayer, my throat closed, the melody slipped, and I stumbled in front of the crowd. My ears burned with shame. I bowed out early, tears mingling with the sandalwood paste on my forehead.
That night, I sat alone behind the temple, under the peepal tree, trying to quiet the thoughts racing through me. I had disappointed everyone, especially Baba. For days after, I avoided the temple. I stopped touching the harmonium. I couldn’t bear the sound of devotion when I felt so disconnected from it.
But then something happened.
It was early morning, close to Amrit Vela — the sacred pre-dawn hour. I had gone to the river to collect flowers for pooja, though I didn’t know why I was still doing it. The air smelled damp with dew, and the fog moved like breath over the water.
As I bent down to gather fallen hibiscus, I noticed an old woman sitting nearby, whispering Sanskrit verses to herself. Her voice was cracked but steady — worn like the base of an old lamp. One verse caught in my heart:
"Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana” — You have the right to perform your actions, but not to the results thereof. (Bhagavad Gita 2.47)
I froze.
I had heard that teaching hundreds of times. But for the first time, it actually reached me. My bhajan was an offering, not a performance. I had tied the value of my effort to applause, to approval. But Krishna — the divine protector and charioteer of Arjuna — never asked that of me. Only sincerity.
That morning, I walked back slowly, the lesson blooming in me.
Later, I stumbled upon more words in a tattered copy of the Upanishads that Baba had left open: “Asato ma sad gamaya” — Lead me from untruth to truth. (Brihadaranyaka Upanishad 1.3.28)
The lie I had believed was that failure meant unworthiness. But the truth? I was still on the path. Even Arjuna had his moment of collapse on the battlefield in the Mahabharata — and yet, that’s where his true journey into clarity began.
I started singing again, quietly at first, after the temple had emptied. Over time, people joined. Not for me, but for the feeling. Something opened.
That’s the thread of the divine plan — what I once thought was a failure was just a bend in the path. Just like Ganesha, remover of obstacles, sometimes places them too — not to punish us, but to re-angle our hearts towards the real goal.
So if you’ve stumbled too, remember: your story isn’t over. It’s unfolding — like the lotuses that bloom only from the muddy water.
Like mine did.
