Nothing That Came to You Is Yours

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Out of habit, we say my house, my son, my degree.
Out of habit, we count what we earned, saved, and won—
As if breath, body, and mind were made in our workshop.

Out of habit, we forget a simple thing:
What came to you was never yours.
It does not even sit in someone’s pocket forever.
It passes through your hands for a while—
Like water in a cup.

Hold too tight, and you call it mine.
That claim is not strength.
It is greed wearing a polite dress.

This note is about that habit—
And about a different one: to give while it passes.

Religion, at its root, is not only ritual.
It is the capacity to give.

Not the size of the gift.
Whether you shared at all.

What blocks giving?
The whisper: This is mine. I may need it tomorrow.
I earned it. I deserve to keep it.

But who gave you the day?
Who gave you the mind that could earn?
Who gave you the friend, the child, the chance?

If you see clearly, you are not the owner.
You are the caretaker for a short time.
Caretakers share. Hoarders choke.

There is an old story about a king.

After the death of a
lonely living richest man of his kingdom,
wealth was brought to his palace—
Cart after cart, poured out for all to see.
For seven days he was busy with that display.
Gold to count, guests to impress, pride to feed.

The king was used to go each morning for quiet teaching.
Those seven days, he did not go once.
The wealth parade filled every corner of his mind.

When the show ended, he remembered.
He went in the afternoon, ashamed and heavy.
The teacher only smiled:
Who was absent—the man, or the man who knows?

The king had not lost in the money he was counting.
He had lost himself inside my wealth.

That is how it happens to us too.
Not only kings.

We get salary, praise, a new post, a child’s success—
And for days we live inside the parade.
No prayer, no silence, no gratitude.
Only mine, mine, mine marching in the head.

Giving can also become poison.

You drop two coins in a beggar’s bowl
And swell with pride.
You make him small so you can feel big.
That is not giving.
That is buying a medal for your ego.

Real giving is quiet.
The other person’s dignity stays intact.
You do not announce, See what I did.
You feel, This was never mine to guard.

Sometimes the poor man is wiser than the rich.
He may refuse your coin
Not out of anger—
But so your gift does not become a chain.
Then, if your heart is honest,
You learn humility faster than from any book.

Look around: almost everyone is begging.

The poor beg for food.
The rich beg for respect.
The learned beg for applause.
The lonely beg for company.

Begging is not only at the traffic light.
It is any time we say,
Fill me, praise me, stay with me—
I am empty without you.

The shift comes when you stop begging to keep,
And start giving what already flows through you—
Time, attention, money, love, knowledge.

Give without the label mine.
Give as the river gives water.
It does not cry when the water moves on.

If the river could speak, it would say:
I am a river because water flows through me.
I can give because I have water.
I can give because I cannot hold.
If I hold, I will no longer be a river—
I will become a pond.
And I love living as a river, not as a pond.

One who learns to give
Finds that life gives back—
Not as a bribe,
But as a law of movement.
The closed fist cannot receive.
The open hand can.

But keep in mind:
Even the wish to get something back while you give
Is not good for freedom.
It binds you to what you still hope to receive.

So begin small and honest.

Before sleep, ask:
What today was given to me?
What did I treat as mine?
What can I release tomorrow?

You need not become poor to be spiritual.
You need to stop lying that you are the source.

Health, name, family, work—
All are guests in your house.
Be a good host while they stay.
Do not chain the guests
And call it love.

When the guest leaves,
Grief may come.
But if you never called them mine,
Grief is softer.
Gratitude remains.

Hari Om Tat Sat
Yours Truly Hari