At a recent youth retreat in Mayapur, a devotee asked me, “When you became a brahmachari, how did you deal with fear about the future caused by your physical disability?”

This question struck me for two reasons.

First, I have been answering questions for nearly three decades now. It is not often that I encounter a question I have never encountered before—generally, someone has asked it to me in some way, shape, or form, or my own mind has. Yet this question was one such exception.

Second, it struck me as a perfectly reasonable question. I wondered why nobody had ever asked me this before. Was it out of politeness—not wanting to make me uncomfortable—that people generally refrained from mentioning my disability, let alone asking about it?

I am not at all uncomfortable talking about the fact that I have polio in my left leg and therefore need crutches for walking. It is just that I myself hardly ever bring it up. Only over the last year or so have I started referring to it, specifically when explaining how my mother’s faith in God helped me see my physical limitation positively.

My immediate answer was, “It was not a consideration for me at all.”

Seeing his eyebrows rise in surprise, I recognized that I needed to explain further. The fact that I have special needs occupies very little space in my mind. It is simply a part of me, much like wearing glasses. Wearing glasses is functionally necessary for me, but beyond that I simply wear them and move on with my life.

The same applies to my crutches. Of course, using crutches is a bit more cumbersome than wearing glasses, but beyond that, it doesn’t weigh on my mind.
Even after our conversation ended, the question lingered in my mind.

I remembered that within about a year of being introduced to the Bhagavad Gita, I had resolved to become a brahmachari. Then a memory came alive within me.

I remembered expressing this desire to Radheshyam Prabhu, who was then the president of the Pune temple. He had become my principal spiritual guide, having patiently answered dozens and dozens of my questions during those formative years.

When I told him that I wanted to join the ashram, his eyes widened briefly, perhaps with surprise or perhaps with pleasure.

The very first question he asked was, “What about your leg?”

I replied, “It has never significantly impeded my life. I lived independently in a hostel throughout my engineering studies without requiring assistance. I don’t expect it to impede me in the future either.”

He nodded.

And that was the end of the discussion.

Neither he nor anyone else asked me any further questions about the matter.

In those heady days of youth, when almost no limitation seems insurmountable, I gave the matter very little thought. At that time, I stayed in the same simple improvised quarters where all the young men visiting the temple stayed.

Now, as I approach fifty, and as my body naturally begins to experience the effects of aging—along with the long-term consequences of living with polio—I recognize that certain facilities, such as having a private room with an attached restroom, have become genuine necessities. Thankfully, obtaining such facilities in the ashram has not been particularly difficult.

But that devotee’s question made me wonder. How much had my physical condition been a consideration for Radheshyam Prabhu when I first approached him?

Did he feel the need to consult anyone before deciding to accept me into the ashram?

I messaged him and asked whether he remembered the incident. He replied almost immediately:

“I remember very well. When you were ready to dedicate your life despite your bodily situation, I was convinced that the Lord in your heart was deeply inspiring you, and I didn’t consult anybody. I immediately accepted you, based on my observation of your sincerity of approach to Krishna consciousness.”
Reading his reply brought a forceful realization.

Until then, I had mostly thought about the conviction it had taken for me to join the ashram. For the first time, I began thinking about the courage it had taken for someone else to accept me.

I am here today not simply because of my own conviction or determination. I am here also because someone else trusted me. Someone else took a risk on me because he saw beyond my limitations.

That thought filled my heart with gratitude, and I replied to him, “Thank you for taking that leap of faith and thereby enabling me to have such an enriching and fulfilling life of sharing spiritual wisdom.”

This exchange reminded me of something Srila Prabhupada writes in his Jaladuta diary. Seeing that the ship—which was owned by his patron Sumati Morarji—had an adequate supply of vegetables and other such arrangements, he writes, “Thanks to Lord Sri Krishna for enlightening Sumati Morarji for all these arrangements.”

What struck me about that passage is that Prabhupada himself was displaying extraordinary courage and sacrifice. At the age of seventy, he was traveling alone to an unknown land with no assurance that anyone would receive him, let alone support him. Yet instead of dwelling on his own sacrifice, he was expressing gratitude for what might seem a relatively small act of kindness.

That made me wonder:

How many blessings in my own life exist only because someone else quietly took a risk, made a sacrifice, or placed confidence in me? And how many of those blessings have I not even recognized?

I often speak about the importance of gratitude, and I consciously try to cultivate it through journaling. Even so, there remains a considerable gap between what I know I should feel grateful for and what I actually do feel grateful for.

I have been trying to bridge that gap. But this incident made me realize that there was something I had missed completely.

There are gifts for which I genuinely feel grateful.

There are gifts for which I know I ought to feel grateful.

And there are gifts I do not even recognize as gifts, let alone feel grateful for them.

Gaining the realization of one such gift in that third category was a deeply spiritually enriching moment—a moment that came only by Krishna’s mercy through a question asked by a young man.

The Bhagavad Gita (17.16) describes satisfaction as one of the austerities of the mind. One of the simplest ways I have found to move from dissatisfaction toward satisfaction is by cultivating gratitude.

I pray that I may become increasingly aware of the many hidden gifts that have enriched my life—gifts I have overlooked because I have naturally focused more on my own struggles than on the risks others took to create opportunities for me.

Perhaps gratitude itself is one of the greatest gifts, because it enables us to recognize all the other gifts that we have unknowingly received.

***

17.16 And satisfaction, simplicity, gravity, self-control and purification of one’s existence are the austerities of the mind.