Once We Prayed for 90%, Now We Just Want to Be Okay !

As children, we prayed like that. Simple prayers for simple outcomes. Our problems were as small as math marks or school medals. And our faith? It was innocent, sweet, and often transactional. But then—we grew up. And so did our prayers. They turned from asking for grades to asking for guidance. From fearing failure to fearing being directionless. From “Bhagwan, meri rank acchi ho jaye” to “Bhagwan, mujhe samajh nahi aa raha, main kaun hoon?


In our childhood, prayer was usually about outcomes. A topper’s position. A trophy in sports day. A successful dance performance at the school function.

We folded our hands in front of the mandir at home, rang the bell, offered flowers and sweets, and asked for what we wanted.
• “Ganpati Bappa, kal ki spelling test achchi ho jaaye.”
• “Lakshmi Mata, Diwali pe naye kapde mil jaayein.”

The deities were our cosmic gift-givers. Faith was a family tradition. And shraddha (devotion) came naturally—even if we didn’t fully understand why we were chanting certain mantras or fasting on certain days. But that innocence had power. It taught us two things early on: surrender and hope.


As we stepped into adolescence, the prayers became quieter—and more complicated. We still stood before the divine idols, but something had shifted.
Our prayers now included emotions we couldn’t name:
• “Why don’t I look like her?”
• “Why is he so popular and I’m not?”
• “Why do my parents only care about marks?”

We began to pray, not just for results, but for relief.
The temple visits became shorter, but the questions got longer.
We started comparing our karma with others’.
And without realizing, we started praying for what others had—good looks, success, acceptance, love.


Then comes adulthood—the age where the illusion of control begins to fade.

Now the prayers sound different:
We are no longer praying for marksheets; we are praying for meaning.

Where earlier we sought blessings for success, now we seek strength for surrender.
We begin to understand what Ishwar Arpan Buddhi means—offering every effort to the Divine without attachment to the result.


As children, we were taught that success is all about effort.
Study hard, work harder, and everything will fall into place.

But adulthood softens that certainty. We begin to realize—effort is just one piece of the puzzle. Karma matters, yes. But so does naseeb—our destiny.

It’s the quiet unfolding of karmas—some planted in this life, others long before. It’s the invisible architecture of our soul’s journey. And the more we try to control it, the more it teaches us surrender.

That’s where dharma enters.
Our prayers begin to shift—from
“Please make this happen for me,”
to
“Please guide me toward what’s truly meant for me.”

Today, the prayer sounds something like:

We sit longer in silence. We find divinity in solitude, in stillness, in nature. Temples are no longer just buildings—they are moments of smriti (inner remembrance). We don’t just offer flowers and fruits now. We offer our anxiety, our fears, our restlessness.

And in return?
We receive something much more valuable than marks or medals—a sense of shanti.
A knowing that the Divine hears every whisper of the soul—even the ones we never say out loud.
We grew up. Our faces changed. Our friends changed. Our dreams changed.
And along the way, our prayers changed too.


In the end, Hindu Dharma doesn’t just teach us how to pray—it teaches us why we pray. Not to change the world outside, but to align the world within. So next time you light that diya, or fold your hands before a deity, remember:

You’re not the child asking for grades anymore.
You are the seeker, asking for grace.

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