Rituals to Realization

I went to a play school located in an Arya Samaj Mandir. Every day, we performed Hawan (fire ritual) and chanted mantras. As a child, I memorised the Vedic Sanskrit Shlokas easily. At home, religious celebrations brought the whole family together to pray. We smartly asked for everything from God—success, health, wisdom, and peace of mind. But as a child, I eagerly waited for the rituals to end so I could enjoy the Prasad (sweets). I found it hard to resist the temptation. Most of the time, I quietly stole some Prasad, which I enjoyed even more!

My aunt was involved in ISKCON, and I loved the way she looked at the deities in the temple; something about it touched me deeply. Inspired, I bought home a Krishna deity and worshipped hime like my child- bathing, dressing, and feeding, even knitting small seaters for him. 

When it came time to marry, I turned to God for guidance. My grandmother insisted I get married, but I had no desire to. I visited the temple daily, listened to talks, and chanted mantras, seeking clarity. One day, I felt that God told me, “Don’t fight with your grandmother; leave it to me.” Eventually, she approved a groom, and I got married.  

After my daughter was born, my inner and outer world changed. I began to question: Why do I have no control over my life? Why do I feel restlessness? What is real confidence, and how can I find it? Once again, I turned to God for answers. 

The next morning, while preparing breakfast, I heard a shloka on T.V. Krishan was explaining to Arjun about the three Gunas: Tamas, Rajas, and Sattva.” Then Krishna said, “There is something beyond all these Gunas. Aim for that”. I had never heard this before and decided to find out what it meant. I read the Bhagavad Gita repeatedly, making notes each time.

One day, while sitting alone in the park watching my child play, a realization struck me: the world is just a play, and I am a small part of it. I had heard this before, but this time, I truly felt it—and it was profoundly moving.” This realization scared me, and I didn’t know whom to discuss it with. I feared people might think I was foolish or wrong.

Two days later, my neighbor invited me to a Hawan. During the ceremony, the fire brought a stillness to my mind. I came back determined to perform a Hawan on my own.  I bought a small Havan Kund, set up a simple setup, and started with the Gayatri Mantra. For a month, I performed the Hawan daily.  It may not be perfect, but I enjoyed every bit of it. My days became structured — chores in the morning, Hawan, reading the Gita, and visiting the temple. I would gaze at the deity of God for an hour, feeling that no one should come between God and me.

A few days later, I visited my best friend and met her father, a humble and wise man who spent his days reading in a quiet corner of their home. Curious, I asked him, “You have read so many books — can you recommend just one that holds the essence of all?” He thought for a while and went inside; he came back with a small book in his hand. I received it with love, without any further questions, and read it.

The book was about Shri Ramakrishna Paramhansa.  His advice was simple yet profound: dedicate a corner of your home and a fixed time each day to meditation, and make it part of your routine. Meditation was new to me, but I decided to try it. Something within me believed in it strongly.

On the first day, it was very difficult to sit with closed eyes for even five minutes. The next day, I tried again at the same time. When I opened my eyes, 15 minutes had passed. I was very happy with this achievement. The feeling was good, nothing more, nothing less.

This experience motivated me to continue my meditation practice. A few days later, I could sit for half an hour easily. Throughout the day, I looked forward to my next meditation session. One day, during meditation, I felt as if my body was not on the ground—I was floating close to the ceiling. I was too scared to open my eyes. “What was that?” I wondered.

The next day, while meditating, I experienced my body melting into a thin, flat sheet. I felt the absence of my physical body. These experiences were strange and left me wondering if I was doing something wrong. Whom should I share these experiences with? Am I going to die? Afterward, I experienced a strange pain, even more terrible than my near-death experience. The pain would strike anytime during the day, even with my eyes open. I felt breathless. It was intolerable. I cried alone. I felt that longing and separation would kill me soon. I tried hard to remember Krishna but couldn’t. I felt utterly alone in the cosmos. Where had my faith gone? What should I do? Where should I go?

Poem

Where have you gone, where have you gone? 
When I close my eyes, no vision, no pillar to hold on, 
No one inside me now, only empty space,
In which I am standing alone,
What about the days I spent in chanting and prayers, 
All have evaporated,
Fearful to be free and alone, 
I cry like a child,
Need your guidance to stay and to carry on. 
Where have you gone, where have you gone.