In My Opinion: A Legacy of Faith and Courage

While we are generations apart, our steps echo with the same sacred syllables of devotion

By Loshini Rajentharan 

My late paternal grandfather migrated from Tamil Nadu to Malaysia, with nothing to his name except a single metal suitcase. Inside it, he carried an image depicting Lord Rama, Sita Ma, Lakshmana and Hanuman. That portrait had once hung in his father’s tailor shop in Karaikudi. 

After his parents passed away, and with little left to hold on to in his village, he left—with only his elder sister’s blessings and no valid ticket, traveling as a stowaway in the ship’s kitchen. He arrived in a foreign land, not knowing the local language or English, the language of the colonial rulers. He had no money, no contacts, no job prospects. All he had was faith—faith firmly placed in Lord Rama.

He would tell me often, and with great pride, how he carried that suitcase on his head for most of the journey to the port of Nagapattinam, where he set sail. That very same image of the Gods, now nearly a hundred years old, still rests in my childhood home—now my brother’s home—anchoring the prayer room as its central Deity. We were raised with prayer woven into the fabric of daily life. Mornings before school, evenings as a family and again before bed. Whenever my grandfather found me in the prayer room, he would say, “Chant Sri Rama Jeyam. Hanuman will always protect you as long as the chant is in your heart.” I believed him.

As I grew, Sri Rama Jeyam became my inner anthem. I chanted it silently while driving, while working, while doing blood draws for my patients, while walking. It steadied me through some of life’s darkest storms—through depression, my father’s long illness and eventual passing, and through the ache of heartbreak. 

Last year, I began practicing likhita japam—the daily act of writing Sri Rama Jeyam. The ritual brought a new kind of stillness, a rhythm that grounded me and echoed across generations. Just a few months after I began this practice, by a series of serendipitous events, I received a job offer in the United Kingdom. In many ways, I mirrored my grandfather’s journey—leaving Malaysia for a new land far across the ocean. Like him, I left behind a life, a family and even my beloved cats. I arrived with a medical degree, fluency in the language, savings and a job—but all of these were made possible by the sacrifices of those who came before me. Their grit, their resilience and, most of all, their faith.

If my paternal grandfather revered Lord Rama, my maternal ancestors leaned toward Shaivism. I embraced both. I carried both in my heart. Still, the transition was not easy. The loneliness was immense. The fear and doubt, often crushing. But I leaned on faith.

I began chanting the Hanuman Chalisa daily as well. I discovered a Hanuman temple in Hendon Broadway, and it became my refuge. Each weekly visit felt like returning home. Kneeling before the Deities of Rama, Sita, Lakshmana and Hanuman in a quiet corner of the temple always brought me back to my roots. After the prayers, I would sit and chant the Hanuman Chalisa—ten times, sometimes twenty. In those moments, peace returned. Strength returned. Slowly, silently, I met each challenge as it came, believing Hanuman would help me through. 

My grandfather taught me that faith is not ornamental. It is what you carry when you have nothing else. It is what gives you the courage to board a ship with no ticket, to walk into the unknown, to keep going when your heart breaks quietly in the dark. His faith lives in me now. And mine, in turn, carries me forward.

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