I am Meena, daughter of a small temple priest in Vrindavan. I grew up among the whispering peepal trees and the scent of camphor, but after my father passed, the silence in our home was deeper than before. I was seventeen and suddenly responsible for my younger brother, for the bills left unpaid, and for bringing light to an altar that now felt far away.
Each morning, I'd light the diya — little oil lamp — and offer it at our small home shrine before hurrying to the roadside tea stall where I worked. There, amid rising steam and clinking glasses, my prayers were always silent. Too tired to speak them aloud. In my heart, I’d say, Krishna, if you can hear me, please… anything. Just help me keep going.
There was no sign. Not in the sky, not in dreams. Some days, I wondered if He’d forgotten. The Gita says, “Ananyāś cintayanto māṁ ye janāḥ paryupāsate. Teṣāṁ nityābhiyuktānāṁ yoga-kṣemaṁ vahāmy aham” (Bhagavad Gita 9.22) — that Krishna carries what we lack. I knew the verse by heart, but in that season, I felt like I was carrying everything.
Winter came hard that year. My brother fell sick, and I didn’t earn enough for his medicine. I remember standing in the temple courtyard one night, watching the cold moonlight pour over the stone floor. I didn’t cry. I just folded my hands and stood there. Silent.
A woman walked past me — someone I’d seen before near the ashram, an old widow who sold marigolds. She paused, looked at me, and then without a word, slipped a small pouch into my hand. Inside were ten rupees, all in coins. Enough for one dose of fever syrup. I turned, stunned, but she’d vanished into the dusk.
I don't know why she gave it. I never asked. But something in me cracked open. Not from the money — from the silence of it. A quiet answer to a quiet prayer.
In the Ramayana, when Sita was held captive in Lanka, she prayed to Rama not by shouting, but from her heart. And somehow, across the seas, He felt it. I remembered that suddenly. That scripture meant something now. Rama knew. Krishna knows.
Months later, the burdens didn't vanish. But something shifted. I saw answers in small things — a neighbor giving leftover daal, a stranger handing us ripe bananas. No thunder, no voice from the sky. Just soft "Yes" whispers.
Now, when I light my diya, I still don't speak much. But I believe, deeply, what the Isha Upanishad says: “He moves and He moves not. He is far and also He is near.” I know the Divine walks silently beside us.
Sometimes, quiet is an answer. Sometimes, the prayer that feels unnoticed is the one that heaven heard first. My voice was small — but it was never ignored.
I am Meena, daughter of a small temple priest in Vrindavan. I grew up among the whispering peepal trees and the scent of camphor, but after my father passed, the silence in our home was deeper than before. I was seventeen and suddenly responsible for my younger brother, for the bills left unpaid, and for bringing light to an altar that now felt far away.
Each morning, I'd light the diya — little oil lamp — and offer it at our small home shrine before hurrying to the roadside tea stall where I worked. There, amid rising steam and clinking glasses, my prayers were always silent. Too tired to speak them aloud. In my heart, I’d say, Krishna, if you can hear me, please… anything. Just help me keep going.
There was no sign. Not in the sky, not in dreams. Some days, I wondered if He’d forgotten. The Gita says, “Ananyāś cintayanto māṁ ye janāḥ paryupāsate. Teṣāṁ nityābhiyuktānāṁ yoga-kṣemaṁ vahāmy aham” (Bhagavad Gita 9.22) — that Krishna carries what we lack. I knew the verse by heart, but in that season, I felt like I was carrying everything.
Winter came hard that year. My brother fell sick, and I didn’t earn enough for his medicine. I remember standing in the temple courtyard one night, watching the cold moonlight pour over the stone floor. I didn’t cry. I just folded my hands and stood there. Silent.
A woman walked past me — someone I’d seen before near the ashram, an old widow who sold marigolds. She paused, looked at me, and then without a word, slipped a small pouch into my hand. Inside were ten rupees, all in coins. Enough for one dose of fever syrup. I turned, stunned, but she’d vanished into the dusk.
I don't know why she gave it. I never asked. But something in me cracked open. Not from the money — from the silence of it. A quiet answer to a quiet prayer.
In the Ramayana, when Sita was held captive in Lanka, she prayed to Rama not by shouting, but from her heart. And somehow, across the seas, He felt it. I remembered that suddenly. That scripture meant something now. Rama knew. Krishna knows.
Months later, the burdens didn't vanish. But something shifted. I saw answers in small things — a neighbor giving leftover daal, a stranger handing us ripe bananas. No thunder, no voice from the sky. Just soft "Yes" whispers.
Now, when I light my diya, I still don't speak much. But I believe, deeply, what the Isha Upanishad says: “He moves and He moves not. He is far and also He is near.” I know the Divine walks silently beside us.
Sometimes, quiet is an answer. Sometimes, the prayer that feels unnoticed is the one that heaven heard first. My voice was small — but it was never ignored.
