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I grew up listening to stories of my grandmother talking about miracles she has experienced during her childhood. She told me that in the village she stays in, rains were scarce. So the community leaders and one person from every family would come together to pray. They prayed for 6 hours straight together with devotion and reverence. By the end of the day, they witnessed the heaviest rainfall of the season. Her stories sounded like fiction to me, but they were quite heartwarming, nonetheless.
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Over the years, she shared different stories. They even included tales of my mother growing up. My mother and her siblings took care of ducks and chickens, woke up early morning, and went to the dock to catch fish with their father and watered a dying plant to life. Every little story that she told me left me feeling amused and filled with wonder. Each story had a little bit of magic and miracle, but as I grew up into a teenager, I stopped believing in them. I thought that miracles were for delusional people who ignored coincidences.
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By the time I grew up into a fully working adult, I had lost the child-like wonder that I had in me. Everything I believed was backed up by science or had a well-justified reason. A few months after my marriage, I lost my father. I was devastated. He was my favorite person in this world. He was the first man I ever loved and looked up to. But he was gone.
During that time, my husband and I were going through a rough patch because we had been trying to conceive for over a year. But we were not successful. I was close to my dad, so I told him about it. He was the only person who knew that we were having a troubled relationship. He was my pillar of strength through it all, but he was no longer with me. It was hard for me to accept his loss.
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During this time, my best friend invited me to her house for Ganesha Chaturthi celebrations. Being from a Sikh background, I did not believe in the festival, and it’s reverence, but I accepted the invitation because I needed a breather. Her house was decorated with a beautiful and colorful altar with Ganpathi, and there were a ton of sweets. During the aarti puja, I felt a strange sense of peace and calm. I prayed with them and wished for a baby. After the puja, her mother blessed me like she would bless any other married woman. I felt happy and delighted.
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After the celebrations, I returned home feeling calm and elevated in a way that I could not explain. I shared the experience with my husband, and then we let it go. We did not read into it too much.
A week later, I was late for my period but didn’t think much of it because that was not unusual for me. My husband told me to take a pregnancy test, but I was hesitant because the results were always “negative”. But he insisted, and I obliged.
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After peeing on a stick and waiting for five anxious minutes, I could not believe my eyes! There were two pink lines. I was pregnant! After all this while. Finally. Tears of joy came pouring down my face. My husband hugged and kissed me. We couldn’t help but head straight to the temple to thank Lord Ganesha. It could be a coincidence, but my heart refused to believe that it wasn’t a miracle.
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The first thing I did was ring my best friend and tell her the news. I told her to thank her mother for the blessings and light a lamp for Lord Ganesha. It did not matter that I am a Sikh. I happily embraced the inter-religious sentiments and praised Ganesha for bringing this light into my life. The festival of Ganesha Chaturthi will always be unique to me. It reminded me that life is filled with miracles, big and small, whether we choose to see it or not.
When was the last time you witnessed a miracle? Share your story with us in the comments below.
