The Thread Running Through My Day

What spirituality means in the life of a mother of three

My best friend and I live in different countries now. Yet somehow, we speak more than ever. What surprises me is not how often we talk, but what we talk about.

Somewhere along the way, our conversations shifted from discussing children, daily frustrations, and the endless demands of ordinary life to something much deeper.

How and when that happened, only He knows.

But we found a common ground that brought us both peace. The more we spoke about it, the more peaceful we felt.

In my own quest to "unlock" spirituality and feel closer to God, I turned to books and classes by well-known spiritual teachers. Eventually, I arrived at a path and handed over the responsibility of guiding me to Him.

I started waking up at 4 a.m.

I was trying to find a pocket of time that belonged only to me. No mini me or mini husband attached to my hip, shoulder, or lap.

In the wee hours, when the world was only beginning to stir, I would already have bathed, lit an incense stick, and applied a sandalwood tilak.

I would sit in the silence.

Meditate.

Read scriptures.

Reflect.

And if I am being honest, I felt a quiet sense of pride.

Then came the third baby.

I was still waking up at 4 a.m., but this time it was to feed him.

Everything I thought was spiritual—reading scriptures, chanting, meditating—took the back seat. Baby, tiffins, schoolwork, and sleeplessness took over the gear, accelerator, brake and steering wheel.

I had no control over my affairs whatsoever.

Slowly, I began to feel as though I was losing my connection with spirituality.

One day, while lamenting to myself about my lack of time for Him, I was suddenly reminded of a story I had heard as a child.

Narada Muni, the celestial sage who is constantly immersed in remembering Bhagavan (the Lord) and chanting His name eternally, once asked the Lord who His greatest devotee was.

Narada expected the answer to be himself.

Instead, Bhagavan named a poor farmer.

The farmer remembered the Lord once in the morning and once at night. The rest of his day was spent tending his fields, caring for his family, and fulfilling his responsibilities.

As a child, I heard it as a funny story.

As a mother of three, I understood it in an entirely different light.

The lesson was not that we must withdraw from life in order to remember God. It was that we can remember Him while living it. That realization changed something for me.

My days still begin with a feeding session at 4 a.m.

Around 4:30 a.m., I make myself a large, steaming cup of ginger tea. The ginger should sting. The tea should be mildly sweet, with just a hint of cardamom.

I sit at the bottom of the stairs in the dimly lit room, inhaling the distinct aroma of the decoction. It warms me in the silence, sometimes broken by a lone cuckoo calling outside.

And I sit there, sipping and contemplating.

Reflecting.

As the day begins, I move into the kitchen. Cooking, cleaning, and preparing for the day ahead. More often than not, I have headphones on, playing stotras, mantras, or bhajans.

They have a curious effect. They energize and soothe at the same time.

While shopping, doing chores, or riding my scooter, I often find myself singing God's names.

I sit and feed my baby while chanting and singing His names. Sometimes, he looks up at me and gives me a big smile.

Years ago, I used a beaded necklace for chanting. Later, I bought a counter so I could be discreet.

Over time, however, both became less necessary.

Perhaps there is spiritual significance in chanting a fixed number of times. But I have come to believe that Bhagavan knows when even a single remembrance comes from a sincere place.

Looking back, I think devotion and spirituality had quietly become a performance.

Even if nobody else could see it.

Even if I was the only audience.

Part of me was saying, "Look! I am dedicated to this."

The baby demolished all of that.

Or so I thought.

Looking back, he did not destroy my spiritual practice.

He changed it.

He taught me to find spirituality within the small pockets of silence hidden inside an otherwise busy life.

🌿 Looking Closer

For a long time, I thought spirituality required a separate space.

A quiet room.

A fixed time.

A scripture in hand.

A mind free from distractions.

Then life happened.

And I slowly began to realize that spirituality was not disappearing from my life.

It was simply changing shape.

Instead of finding God in the absence of activity, I was learning to remember Him in the middle of it.

A feeding session.

A cup of tea.

A sink full of dishes.

A scooter ride.

The ordinary moments had become the practice.

✨ A Quiet Reflection

I used to think my biggest obstacle to spirituality was a lack of time.

Now I wonder if it was my definition of spirituality.

The baby took away my uninterrupted mornings. But he also taught me that devotion can live quite comfortably in interrupted ones.

Spirituality may not always be found in stepping away from life. It can be woven into the life we already have.

Like a thread running quietly through the day.

🥜 A Nugget to Chew On

An idle mind can chase a hundred problems, or it can remember one name, verse or hymn.

The problems may not disappear.

But remembering can be an invitation to peace.

❓ Over to You

What helps you return to peace when your mind begins collecting worries?

Is it a prayer, a verse, a song, a practice, or simply a few moments of silence?

🌿 A Note from This, Right Here

This article is part of a small publishing experiment.

Over the coming weeks, I'll be sharing stories, reflections, and practical insights across parenting, motherhood, spirituality, growth, and simple living.

Rather than filling your inbox with every article, I'm working towards a more curated experience—a weekly collection of the week's writing gathered into a single edition.

If that sounds like your cup of tea, I'd love for you to subscribe and join me.