The Reason of my Absence

There’s a reason I went quiet.

Not because I had nothing to say,

but because life was asking me

to listen… a little more than speak.

March changed something.

I moved my base from Gurgaon to Indore.

On paper, it looked like a practical decision.

My work is online.

The kids’ school wasn’t feeling right anymore.

And somewhere along the way,

the pace of Gurgaon had started feeling… too loud inside me.

In January, I had taken a short trip to Indore.

Nothing dramatic.

No big moment.

Just this quiet sense—

that something here feels… easier.

In March, before making the decision,

I went to Khatu Shyam ji.

Then Salasar Balaji.

And prayed to Mehandipur Balaji

Not with questions.

Not asking for signs.

Just one thing—

jo theek ho, wahi karna.

And I left it there.

In March, I came back to Indore.

My father joined me.

The school took some time…

but it worked out.

The house didn’t.

Day 1.

Day 2.

Day 3.

Same conversations.

Same brokers.

Same— “yeh best hai madam.”

Nothing felt right.

And I don’t mean perfect.

I mean… livable in my body.

Every house looked okay.

But something felt off.

Like I would have to adjust myself

to fit into the space.

By day 4, I was irritated.

Snapping faster.

Tired in a way sleep wasn’t fixing.

People had started saying—

“Rental hai.”

“Itna kya sochna.”

“Adjust kar lo.”

And slowly… it started getting to me.

Maybe I was being difficult.

Maybe I expect too much.

Maybe this is how it works—

you just pick something and move on.

Day 5.

I was done.

We went to see one last place.

It was… fine.

Nothing wrong with it.

Nothing right either.

And I said yes.

Not from alignment.

From exhaustion.

I remember standing there,

token amount almost decided,

and something inside me just… dropped.

And almost like a tired child,

I said to my Laddu Radha—

agar aap yahan reh sakte ho…

toh main bhi reh loongi.

It didn’t come from faith.

It came from… giving up.

And then—

two men walked in.

People I had met casually a day before.

They looked around,

looked at me,

and almost immediately said—

“Yahan mat raho.”

Not a suggestion.

Not a discussion.

Just… said it.

Before I could even process what was happening,

they took me and my father

to see another place.

I didn’t think.

I just went.

We reached.

The door opened.

And I paused.

Not because it was luxurious.

Not because it was perfect.

Just… something eased.

A fully furnished home.

Warm.

Alive.

Walls with soft textures.

A space that didn’t ask me to adjust.

And then I saw it.

Mehandipur Balaji.

Right there.

Inside the house.

I didn’t react immediately.

I just stood there.

Because suddenly,

the last five days—

the no’s, the delays, the frustration—

all of it… was sitting in that one moment.

It didn’t feel like I found the house.

It felt like I was placed there.

Like someone had already decided—

“yahin rehna hai.”

I folded my hands.

Right there.

And almost on its own,

a bhajan started playing within—

tum saath ho jo mere

kis baat ki kami hai

mujhe aur ab kisi ki

darkar hi nahi hai…

Tears came again.

But this time,

not from exhaustion.

Something else.

Something that didn’t fit into words.

I said yes.

Gave the token.

Came back to Gurgaon.

Packed everything.

And on the first day of Navratra,

I moved.

People kept telling me—

“You’re so strong.”

“So courageous to do this alone.”

And I would smile.

But deep inside…

it didn’t feel like strength.

It felt like… I was being carried.

Like things were being arranged

and I was just moving through them.

And somewhere in between all of this,

that line kept returning—

karte ho tum kanhaiya

mera naam ho raha hai

meri aapki kripa se

sab kaam ho raha hai…

Even now, sometimes,

when I sit in this house—

this thought comes quietly—

I almost stayed somewhere else.

I almost overrode something

that was very gently… guiding me.

The last few weeks have been real.

Unpacking.

Settling.

Figuring small things.

Moments of doubt.

Moments of stillness.

And in between all of that—

this quiet, steady undercurrent of gratitude.

Not loud.

Not expressive.

Just… there.

So if you felt my absence—

it wasn’t distance.

It was something shifting.

rearranging.

finding its place.

I’m here now with my kids.

And held in a way, no words can explain .