I was nineteen when my father placed the wooden chisel in my hand. “It is time,” he said, his voice firm but gentle, “to carve the image of Lord Hanuman for the temple.”
I was terrified.
My father was the temple sculptor for three decades. Every murti — sacred image — in our small town was shaped by his hands. Everyone expected me to follow him. But while he had always carved with confidence, I only knew doubt.
Each morning, I sat before the black granite under the neem tree, chisel in hand, hands trembling. I feared I would chip it wrong, dishonor Hanuman — the monkey god known for his strength, devotion, and courage.
I thought maybe I wasn't meant for this destiny. Maybe a different path would be easier.
One afternoon, as I sat staring at the untouched stone, a storm rolled in. The winds blew dust from the ground into my eyes. I shielded my face, blinking tears, and felt as if the whole world was challenging me.
Then I heard it — not from outside, but from within.
A verse from the Bhagavad Gita, which my grandfather used to chant each morning before sunrise, rose unbidden in my mind: “Karmanye vadhikaraste, Ma phaleshu kadachana” — "You have the right to your labor, not to the results."
I closed my eyes.
It wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t about becoming a master like my father. It was about showing up. About trying. About letting the Divine work through my hands.
I breathed in deeply and picked up the chisel.
That evening, I carved for the first time without fear. My strokes were slow — imperfect — but sincere. I stopped worrying about whether the face would come out correct. I just kept thinking of Hanuman — how he once leaped across the ocean with nothing but devotion in his heart. How, even in fear, he always answered when duty called.
The days passed, and the shape emerged. Not flawless, but kind. Strong.
One morning, a small boy came to watch. He sat silently for hours as I worked.
When I finally turned to him, he said softly, “He looks brave.”
I smiled, tears filling my eyes — not because he praised the statue, but because in that moment, I felt something shift. I had stepped into what was mine to do.
In the Ramayana, when Lakshmana lay injured and only a mystical herb could save him, Hanuman flew alone to the Himalayas. Not because he knew what to do — but because he trusted that serving was enough.
That belief gave me courage.
Today, the image of Hanuman stands in the sanctum. Devotees offer marigolds, whisper prayers, and touch the stone with reverence. Sometimes I stand at the edge, palms folded, remembering those early days under the neem tree.
Courage didn’t arrive like lightning. It came quietly. Like a memory. Like a verse. Like dharma — one’s sacred duty — nudging gently from within.
I was never alone. I only had to begin.
I was nineteen when my father placed the wooden chisel in my hand. “It is time,” he said, his voice firm but gentle, “to carve the image of Lord Hanuman for the temple.”
I was terrified.
My father was the temple sculptor for three decades. Every murti — sacred image — in our small town was shaped by his hands. Everyone expected me to follow him. But while he had always carved with confidence, I only knew doubt.
Each morning, I sat before the black granite under the neem tree, chisel in hand, hands trembling. I feared I would chip it wrong, dishonor Hanuman — the monkey god known for his strength, devotion, and courage.
I thought maybe I wasn't meant for this destiny. Maybe a different path would be easier.
One afternoon, as I sat staring at the untouched stone, a storm rolled in. The winds blew dust from the ground into my eyes. I shielded my face, blinking tears, and felt as if the whole world was challenging me.
Then I heard it — not from outside, but from within.
A verse from the Bhagavad Gita, which my grandfather used to chant each morning before sunrise, rose unbidden in my mind: “Karmanye vadhikaraste, Ma phaleshu kadachana” — "You have the right to your labor, not to the results."
I closed my eyes.
It wasn’t about perfection. It wasn’t about becoming a master like my father. It was about showing up. About trying. About letting the Divine work through my hands.
I breathed in deeply and picked up the chisel.
That evening, I carved for the first time without fear. My strokes were slow — imperfect — but sincere. I stopped worrying about whether the face would come out correct. I just kept thinking of Hanuman — how he once leaped across the ocean with nothing but devotion in his heart. How, even in fear, he always answered when duty called.
The days passed, and the shape emerged. Not flawless, but kind. Strong.
One morning, a small boy came to watch. He sat silently for hours as I worked.
When I finally turned to him, he said softly, “He looks brave.”
I smiled, tears filling my eyes — not because he praised the statue, but because in that moment, I felt something shift. I had stepped into what was mine to do.
In the Ramayana, when Lakshmana lay injured and only a mystical herb could save him, Hanuman flew alone to the Himalayas. Not because he knew what to do — but because he trusted that serving was enough.
That belief gave me courage.
Today, the image of Hanuman stands in the sanctum. Devotees offer marigolds, whisper prayers, and touch the stone with reverence. Sometimes I stand at the edge, palms folded, remembering those early days under the neem tree.
Courage didn’t arrive like lightning. It came quietly. Like a memory. Like a verse. Like dharma — one’s sacred duty — nudging gently from within.
I was never alone. I only had to begin.
