I still remember the monsoon day I almost walked out of my marriage.
My name is Vaishnavi, and I was 34, sitting on the edge of my slimy kitchen step, drenched from bringing in laundry that I had forgotten on the line. Behind me, the pressure cooker hissed, and from inside the hall came the sound of my daughter giggling—with her father. My husband, Mehul. The same man I had sworn I couldn't live with a mere twelve hours earlier.
We had fought again. Over something small—groceries, or maybe his mother’s upcoming visit. I don't remember. What I remember is the heat that rose in my chest, the kind that made me whisper to myself, “Why am I still here?”
I had my mother’s flat I could go to. A decent job. My own bank account. No one would question me.
And yet, I sat there, frozen.
As the steam fogged the windows and the rain tapped its rhythm on our tin awning, my eyes landed on my daughter’s schoolbag. It had Gita Saar printed on it—an image of Lord Krishna guiding Arjuna in the battlefield of Kurukshetra. I had seen it a hundred times. But that moment, the words beside it pulled me in: “Do your duty, without attachment to the result.” (Bhagavad Gita 2.47)
Arjuna, the great warrior from the Mahabharata, had wanted to walk away too—from war, from responsibility, from pain. And Krishna, Lord Vishnu’s form who was his charioteer and guide, told him: Don't act out of fear. Act because it is right.
I whispered aloud, unsure of who was listening. “What is my duty?”
Not what I wanted. Not what satisfied my pride. But what aligned with dharma—right living, as the Gita describes.
I remembered another verse, one I had learned during temple classes as a girl: “Better to do one’s own duty, even imperfectly, than to perform another’s duty perfectly.” (Bhagavad Gita 18.47)
Leaving would have been easy at that moment. But raising a child in love, keeping a promise, walking through the difficult season of marriage—that was mine.
I didn’t have a grand revelation. Just something small cracked open.
Later that evening, as I handed Mehul a cup of chai, I noticed his hand pause before taking it, surprised. I didn't say anything. Neither did he. But in that silence, some war inside me cooled.
Months passed. We still argued. But something had changed. I was not flailing in choices—I was anchored in one.
Scriptures aren’t just books to me anymore. They are maps handed down across time. On the days I forget, I read aloud Krishna’s words: “Be steadfast in yoga, O Arjuna. Perform your duty and abandon all attachment to success or failure.” (Bhagavad Gita 2.48)
And when I feel lost again, I sit quietly, and I ask—not what I want—but what is mine to do.
And always, duty whispers the way.
I still remember the monsoon day I almost walked out of my marriage.
My name is Vaishnavi, and I was 34, sitting on the edge of my slimy kitchen step, drenched from bringing in laundry that I had forgotten on the line. Behind me, the pressure cooker hissed, and from inside the hall came the sound of my daughter giggling—with her father. My husband, Mehul. The same man I had sworn I couldn't live with a mere twelve hours earlier.
We had fought again. Over something small—groceries, or maybe his mother’s upcoming visit. I don't remember. What I remember is the heat that rose in my chest, the kind that made me whisper to myself, “Why am I still here?”
I had my mother’s flat I could go to. A decent job. My own bank account. No one would question me.
And yet, I sat there, frozen.
As the steam fogged the windows and the rain tapped its rhythm on our tin awning, my eyes landed on my daughter’s schoolbag. It had Gita Saar printed on it—an image of Lord Krishna guiding Arjuna in the battlefield of Kurukshetra. I had seen it a hundred times. But that moment, the words beside it pulled me in: “Do your duty, without attachment to the result.” (Bhagavad Gita 2.47)
Arjuna, the great warrior from the Mahabharata, had wanted to walk away too—from war, from responsibility, from pain. And Krishna, Lord Vishnu’s form who was his charioteer and guide, told him: Don't act out of fear. Act because it is right.
I whispered aloud, unsure of who was listening. “What is my duty?”
Not what I wanted. Not what satisfied my pride. But what aligned with dharma—right living, as the Gita describes.
I remembered another verse, one I had learned during temple classes as a girl: “Better to do one’s own duty, even imperfectly, than to perform another’s duty perfectly.” (Bhagavad Gita 18.47)
Leaving would have been easy at that moment. But raising a child in love, keeping a promise, walking through the difficult season of marriage—that was mine.
I didn’t have a grand revelation. Just something small cracked open.
Later that evening, as I handed Mehul a cup of chai, I noticed his hand pause before taking it, surprised. I didn't say anything. Neither did he. But in that silence, some war inside me cooled.
Months passed. We still argued. But something had changed. I was not flailing in choices—I was anchored in one.
Scriptures aren’t just books to me anymore. They are maps handed down across time. On the days I forget, I read aloud Krishna’s words: “Be steadfast in yoga, O Arjuna. Perform your duty and abandon all attachment to success or failure.” (Bhagavad Gita 2.48)
And when I feel lost again, I sit quietly, and I ask—not what I want—but what is mine to do.
And always, duty whispers the way.
