My Battle Against Temptation and Doubt.

The moment my brother arrived from Singapore, the whispers had already reached him. My mother and sister had told him about my shift to vegetarianism, and from that instant, he seized the opportunity to mock me.

“Sanyasi,” he sneered, his smirk laced with condescension.

From the moment I woke up that morning until late into the night, he bombarded me with taunts, determined to shake my resolve. He wanted me to fail—because to him, I always had. A quitter. Someone who never followed through.

He reminded me of every so-called failure: when I couldn’t hold a job in Singapore, when I struggled living with him and his family. He painted me as a burden, an inconvenience in his life.

Was I really a pain to him? Had every decision I made been so wrong?

Then, the conversation turned darker.

My sister brought up our father’s decline, and my brother, with his usual self-righteous certainty, took the stage. He spoke of the years he spent searching for a home for our father as dementia tightened its grip. Our father, ever the proud man, refused to admit he needed help. The final blow came when whispers of his condition spread in Singapore, a chain of gossip ignited by our aunt. Suddenly, the whole community knew. My brother had to deal with four Kurukshetra at the same time, one was me, his aunt, his father and his family.  Humiliated, our father clung even harder to his illusion of independence.

And then my brother turned on me.

With measured words, he accused me of dumping our father’s care onto our aunt. He didn’t have to say it outright—I could hear it in his tone. I failed. Again. The Kurukshetra has  created an old resentment of my father as the new Kurukshetra back onto me, again. I had broken five chain sambahabvi mudra practises as yet still continue to persist with a new continuos chain.

Then came the final blow.

He compared me to our father, hinting that my spiritual path was no different from our father’s stubborn delusions. My sister nodded in agreement. And just like that, the table turned against me. My mother, the only person who might have defended me, remained silent.

I was alone.

The attacks kept coming. He questioned why I wasn’t tempted by the sizzling, fragrant dishes in front of me. He laughed at my resolve, certain I would break. My sister joined in, reinforcing every doubt he planted. And then, as if driving the last nail into the coffin, he suggested installing a home CCTV to track my mother’s whereabouts when I wasn’t around—implying that I, too, was failing her.

But I saw through his game.

This wasn’t about food. This wasn’t about my father. This was about control. About proving that I was weak, that I could never truly commit to anything.

I pushed my chair back and walked out.

The night air was crisp, cutting against my skin like a silent reminder—I was still here. Still standing. I reached into my bag and realized I had forgotten my house key. A minor inconvenience, but in that moment, it felt symbolic. Another test of patience. Another sign that this path I had chosen would not be easy.

Then clarity struck.

Choosing this spiritual journey was not wrong. Seeking growth, discipline, and self-discovery was not wrong. No amount of manipulation, mockery, or pressure would change that.

My brother’s words were not truths. They were his fears, his rigid beliefs, his need to control what he could not understand. And that terrified him.

He scoffed at the idea of the Isha Center accepting someone like me—again. But the truth is, his opinion doesn’t matter. I am not seeking validation from him, my sister, or anyone else.

This journey isn’t about proving them wrong.

It’s about breaking free—from limitations, from old patterns, from every past mistake that has weighed me down.

I refuse to quit.

I will chant. I will practice. I will dedicate myself to this path, no matter how many obstacles stand in my way.

Because this is my Kurukshetra.

And I am ready for the battle.