Some gods enter our lives through temples and rituals.

Some have been sitting quietly on the family altar all along,

waiting for the day we recognize them.

Ganesha had always been there.

He was one among the familiar deities on my parents' puja altar—

the beloved elephant-headed God

whose name was invoked before beginnings,

whose blessings were sought before journeys,

examinations and important occasions.

I had seen Him all my life.

But one morning, when I was a frightened schoolgirl

walking into my Tamil final examination, something changed.

That was the morning I felt He saw me.

And there is something extraordinarily tender about which Ganesha became the doorway.

Not a magnificent temple Ganesha.

Not a perfectly decorated festival murti.

Not Ganesha enthroned in grandeur.

Nondi Pillaiyar. The Ganesha with the broken leg. ❤️

🐘

Nondi Pillaiyar

Tamil was not my native language.

Both my parents were from Mangalore.

Although they had learned to speak Tamil, neither could read or write it,

so when I moved from a Central Board school into a school

where the Tamil curriculum was considerably more demanding,

I struggled.

And the stakes felt enormous.

My final examination scores would determine my chances of admission

into the professional school I dreamed of pursuing.

I was strong in my other subjects, but Tamil frightened me.

One poor score could pull down my aggregate.

By grace, however, I had found a wonderful teacher.

She was a Tamil pundit who stayed after school to teach me.

Patiently and lovingly, she helped me move beyond simply trying to pass an examination.

Through her, I began to appreciate the beauty of the Tamil language—

its poetry, literature and extraordinary richness.

I remain grateful to her even today.

Sometimes a teacher who teaches us how to read a language

inadvertently gives us access to something far beyond language.

She did that for me.

Among the essays I had to prepare for my examination

was a story called Nondi Pillaiyar—The Crippled Ganesha.

It told of a little boy who bought a clay Ganesha for Ganesh Chaturthi.

In his excitement while carrying the idol home,

he dropped it and one of Ganesha's legs broke.

But the boy did not discard his imperfect Pillaiyar.

He took Him home.

He prayed to Him.

He loved Him.

And in the story, grace entered that child's ordinary life through

precisely that imperfect form.

Slowly, beautiful things began happening in the boy's life,

lifting him toward better circumstances.

For reasons I couldn't have explained then, that story stayed with me.

It was also the one major essay I knew I could reproduce confidently.

The others felt far more difficult.

There was only one problem.

The examination would contain a single essay question.

No choice.

Either I knew the essay that appeared on the paper—or I didn't.

The essay carried nearly thirty percent of the marks.

On the morning of my Tamil examination, I walked to school terrified.

And somewhere along that walk, I began praying to the Ganesha from the story.

Nondi Pillaiyar, please come in my examination.

I sat at my desk as the teacher distributed the question papers.

My palms were sweating.

My heart was pounding.

When the paper was placed before me, I kept my eyes closed.

I prayed.

Then I opened my eyes and turned over the question paper.

The first question I saw was:

Nondi Pillaiyar.

I don't think I can adequately describe the joy and relief that went through that schoolgirl.

I knew the essay.

I knew I could write the paper well.

And I did.

Until that morning, Ganesha had been another beloved deity on my parents' puja altar.

That morning, something became personal.

I had called.

And in the way my young heart understood it, Pillaiyar had answered.

🐘

He Was Waiting in Mangalore

I went on to receive the admission I had dreamed about.

Dental school took me to Mangalore—the land my parents came from—

and there, I found Ganesha again.

This time He was waiting for me at the Sharavu Mahaganapathi Temple.

For more than eight years while I lived in Mangalore,

I rarely missed seeing Him on a weekend.

Through undergraduate studies, postgraduate education and the uncertain years of

becoming a young professional, I would stand before Him with folded hands.

He would be beautifully adorned, often surrounded by fragrant Mangalore mallige—jasmine.

And somewhere along the way, Ganesha and I developed our own little language.

I would close my eyes and pray silently.

Sometimes I would ask:

Show me that You heard me.

Then I would open my eyes.

And from somewhere behind the jasmine flowers, a tiny mouse would appear.

Just its little face.

Then it would disappear again.

The mouse, of course, is Mushika, Ganesha's vahana—His vehicle.

So naturally I had my own interpretation.

Pillaiyar was nearby.

Apparently the Divine has a sense of humor.

And my Ganesha had plenty. 🐭

It happened so consistently that eventually I stopped needing an explanation.

It was simply ours.

I prayed.

The mouse appeared.

And my heart heard:

I'm here.

🐘

The Ganesha with Lipstick on His Forehead

Later, I brought home a stone sculpture of Ganesha for my apartment.

By then our relationship had become less formal.

He wasn't merely a deity I visited at a temple.

He was family.

Every morning before leaving for work, I would stand before Him and pray.

And before walking out of the house, I had one final ritual.

I kissed His forehead goodbye.

Which meant that my dignified stone Ganesha regularly sat on my altar

wearing lipstick marks in whatever shade I happened to be wearing that morning.

My friends would tease me saying that He must be

one very lucky Ganesha to receive so many kisses.

Perhaps He was.

But they could not have known how lucky I felt to have Him.

On Ganesh Chaturthi I would make little skirts of fresh durva grass for Him,

adorn Him with flower garlands, sandalwood paste and kumkum,

and celebrate Him with all the affection one reserves for someone deeply loved.

Because that is what He had become.

He was loved.

Not ceremonially admired.

Not approached only when I wanted something.

Loved with the familiarity of family.

🐘

Another Country, the Same Ganesha

Years later, life brought me to the United States.

New country.

New home.

New beginnings.

And when I received my first paycheck, I bought something that mattered deeply to me.

A beautiful brass Ganesha.

He came home with me.

He still sits on our puja altar today.

I continue to decorate Him for Ganesh Chaturthi, just as I did

with my stone Ganesha in India—

with durva, flowers, sandalwood and kumkum.

Addresses changed.

Countries changed.

Life changed.

He stayed.

And over the years, the way I prayed changed too.

As a schoolgirl, I had prayed:

Please let Nondi Pillaiyar appear on my examination paper.

As an adult, when life became difficult, my prayer became much simpler.

I would reach toward the brass murti and hold the hand Ganesha raises in abhaya mudra.

Abhaya—do not fear.

The gesture that says:

Do not be afraid. I am here.

There have been moments when I held that metal hand and felt,

inexplicably and unmistakably to me,

as though it softened beneath mine—almost like a human hand.

And in those moments, what I heard in my heart was:

Do you feel Me now?

I am closer than you think.

So when life became too hard, I stopped asking only for difficulties to disappear.

Instead, I held His hand.

Ganesha, hold me. Help me ride this one.

And somehow, He did.

🐘

The Lord at the Root

Recently, I heard a reflection describing the Muladhara—the root chakra—

through the metaphor of the basement of a house.

Our basements often hold what we don't quite know what to do with:

old things, forgotten things, broken things, things we would rather visitors didn't see.

The metaphor stayed with me.

Ganesha is traditionally associated with the Muladhara, the root—

the foundation from which the spiritual journey begins.

And suddenly I saw something in that teaching that I had already experienced throughout my life.

We cannot build securely upward while ignoring the foundation beneath us.

Perhaps removing obstacles does not always mean making every difficult thing disappear.

Sometimes the remover of obstacles removes what blocks the path.

Sometimes He opens a door.

Sometimes He clears what needs to go.

And sometimes the obstacle remains for a while...

and He makes the ground beneath us strong enough to walk across it.

Maybe that is one reason everything begins with Ganesha.

Before we build upward, we tend the foundation.

Before the journey, we acknowledge the gatekeeper.

Before courage, we meet what frightens us.

And before taking the next uncertain step, there is that raised hand:

Abhaya.

Do not fear.

🐘

The One Whose Hand I Reach For

Nearly four decades have passed since that frightened schoolgirl

sat in an examination hall

with sweaty palms and closed eyes.

I could never have imagined then where life would take me.

Dental school.

Mangalore.

Years of study.

A career.

Another country.

Homes made and remade.

Joy.

Loss.

Beginnings.

Endings.

Things I prayed would happen.

Things I prayed I could survive.

Through all those changing landscapes, faith has remained

one of the great anchors of my life.

And Ganesha has been part of that anchor.

Perhaps that is what an Ishta Devata eventually becomes.

Not merely the deity we choose to worship, but the form of the Divine

through whom we learn what it feels like to be accompanied.

Mine happened to arrive first as Nondi Pillaiyar—a little clay Ganesha with a broken leg.

Perhaps there was wisdom in that beginning too.

He never promised me a life in which nothing would break.

He simply became the One whose hand I learned to reach for when something did.

I had seen Him all my life.

That morning long ago, I felt He saw me.

Four decades later, I still hold His hand.

May He always see us.

And may we always remember Him.

Ganapati Bappa Morya. 🐘🙏❤️

❤️

“He never promised me a life in which nothing would break.
He simply became the One whose hand I learned to reach for when something did.”