I was twenty-two when I left my village in Gujarat and took the train to Delhi, carrying nothing but a thin bag of clothes, a small Gita from my grandmother, and the weight of dreams that no longer felt like mine.
My name is Arjun — not the great warrior from the Mahabharata, just a boy named after him, though I never felt brave like that. For the first few weeks in the city, I wandered like a ghost between job interviews and crowded hostels. Nobody knew my name, and honestly, I began to forget it too.
The loneliness was quiet but sharp. I’d eat dinner alone at roadside dhabas — the kind where men lit beedis and didn’t make eye contact. I’d lie awake on a narrow cot hearing the snoring of strangers, wondering if I’d made a mistake, if my village, small and dusty, had actually been a kind of shelter.
One night, after another failed interview, I stood near the Yamuna River. The city lights didn’t reach the bank. I sat by the murky water, pulling out the small Bhagavad Gita from my bag, more from habit than faith.
The pages had grown soft from my sweaty fingers over the years. I turned to a verse my grandmother had underlined long ago:
“I am the Self, O Gudakesha, seated in the hearts of all beings…”
— Bhagavad Gita 10.20
I read it again. And again.
The air was thick, but for a moment, I felt light—as if someone sat beside me, not trying to solve my problems, just… staying near. I remembered how my grandmother used to say that Krishna — the Divine in form — doesn’t always come with a flute and miracles. “Sometimes,” she whispered once while grinding spices, “He just walks quietly behind you, making sure you don’t fall.”
I looked at the still water, stirred only by a single leaf floating by. Something inside me softened. I didn’t feel brave yet. But I no longer felt unseen.
Later that week, I got a small job in a printing shop — nothing huge, but enough for tea, bus fare, and the comfort of routine. One morning, while arranging flyers, a boy passed by the shop window and waved at me. He didn’t know me, but still — he smiled.
That evening, I found another verse:
"When a man sees Me in all and all in Me, then I never leave him and he never leaves Me.”
— Bhagavad Gita 6.30
I began to believe: maybe even in this strange new city, the Gods walk beside me. Maybe my solitude isn’t empty — just holy ground waiting to be recognized.
So now, when the sky turns orange behind the buildings and that ache of missing familiar faces returns, I whisper a quiet pranam — a respectful bow — in my heart.
And I remember: even my loneliest steps are sacredly watched.
Even when I think I’m walking alone… I’m not.
I was twenty-two when I left my village in Gujarat and took the train to Delhi, carrying nothing but a thin bag of clothes, a small Gita from my grandmother, and the weight of dreams that no longer felt like mine.
My name is Arjun — not the great warrior from the Mahabharata, just a boy named after him, though I never felt brave like that. For the first few weeks in the city, I wandered like a ghost between job interviews and crowded hostels. Nobody knew my name, and honestly, I began to forget it too.
The loneliness was quiet but sharp. I’d eat dinner alone at roadside dhabas — the kind where men lit beedis and didn’t make eye contact. I’d lie awake on a narrow cot hearing the snoring of strangers, wondering if I’d made a mistake, if my village, small and dusty, had actually been a kind of shelter.
One night, after another failed interview, I stood near the Yamuna River. The city lights didn’t reach the bank. I sat by the murky water, pulling out the small Bhagavad Gita from my bag, more from habit than faith.
The pages had grown soft from my sweaty fingers over the years. I turned to a verse my grandmother had underlined long ago:
“I am the Self, O Gudakesha, seated in the hearts of all beings…”
— Bhagavad Gita 10.20
I read it again. And again.
The air was thick, but for a moment, I felt light—as if someone sat beside me, not trying to solve my problems, just… staying near. I remembered how my grandmother used to say that Krishna — the Divine in form — doesn’t always come with a flute and miracles. “Sometimes,” she whispered once while grinding spices, “He just walks quietly behind you, making sure you don’t fall.”
I looked at the still water, stirred only by a single leaf floating by. Something inside me softened. I didn’t feel brave yet. But I no longer felt unseen.
Later that week, I got a small job in a printing shop — nothing huge, but enough for tea, bus fare, and the comfort of routine. One morning, while arranging flyers, a boy passed by the shop window and waved at me. He didn’t know me, but still — he smiled.
That evening, I found another verse:
"When a man sees Me in all and all in Me, then I never leave him and he never leaves Me.”
— Bhagavad Gita 6.30
I began to believe: maybe even in this strange new city, the Gods walk beside me. Maybe my solitude isn’t empty — just holy ground waiting to be recognized.
So now, when the sky turns orange behind the buildings and that ache of missing familiar faces returns, I whisper a quiet pranam — a respectful bow — in my heart.
And I remember: even my loneliest steps are sacredly watched.
Even when I think I’m walking alone… I’m not.
