In the guru-shishya parampara—the ancient lineage of teacher and student—learning is not a transaction. It is a form of devotion. When I learned music from my guru, there was no fee, no contract, no expectation of return. What existed instead was a deep silence filled with trust. The guru poured knowledge like water into a thirsty vessel, not because I had earned it, but because I was there, willing, open.

You still hear stories of this: a student sweeping the floor of the guru’s home for years before even being allowed to sing a note. A lesson might arrive one day not in the form of a raga but as a question, or a gesture, or simply as a long, deliberate pause. In the parampara, the student doesn’t just learn music or knowledge—they learn love. A love that is given, not traded. A love without bargaining, without the ledger of expectations.

This is how I try to teach. If there’s anything in me worth learning, I offer it to you the way a tree offers fruit. With no grip. No price tag. Just the wish that you take it, taste it, and—if it moves you—plant its seed elsewhere. Knowledge is like that. So is love.

A mango tree bears fruit not for itself. It does not eat its own sweetness. It ripens, falls, and gives. The only thing it wants—if trees want anything at all—is for the seed to take root somewhere else. The seed is possibility. New life. Continuation. I offer you my teachings the same way: not so you can owe me, or praise me, or remember me—but so that one day you might grow something of your own.

This is not sentimentality. It is a spiritual principle. The highest teachings have always been free. The Upanishads. The Gita. The Shabad. They ask not for your money, but for your self. They demand that you come not as a consumer, but as a lover. As someone willing to risk being changed.

Daniel Ladinsky captures this spirit of giving in a poem inspired by the mystic Hafiz:


Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
“You owe Me.”
Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.

The sun doesn’t negotiate. It shines. The river doesn’t check your background before it gives you water. A mother doesn’t wait for her child to say thank you before she feeds them. And the true guru does not hoard wisdom. He offers it, over and over, until the student begins to glow with that same sun.

But to receive such love—this unconditional giving—you have to empty yourself. You have to come not just with your intellect, but with your head in your hands. This kind of love demands surrender. Not passivity, but presence. Not obedience, but courage. The courage to walk a path where you are no longer the center, where you are no longer in control.

We often think of love as an emotion. But in the spiritual traditions of India, love is a path. A discipline. A game that few are brave enough to play.

Guru Nanak puts it with unforgettable clarity:


ਜਉ ਤਉ ਪ੍ਰੇਮ ਖੇਲਣ ਕਾ ਚਾਉ ॥
If you desire to play this game of love,

ਸਿਰੁ ਧਰਿ ਤਲੀ ਗਲੀ ਮੇਰੀ ਆਉ ॥
step into my street with your head in hand.

ਇਤੁ ਮਾਰਗਿ ਪੈਰੁ ਧਰੀਜੈ ॥
When you place your feet on this path,

ਸਿਰੁ ਦੀਜੈ ਕਾਣਿ ਨ ਕੀਜੈ ॥੨੦॥
give me your head, and do not hesitate. ||20||

This is the path of unconditional love—not romantic or devotional in the sentimental sense, but fierce, uncompromising, and utterly free. There is no room for half-measures here. No bargaining. You give your all, and in doing so, you finally become whole.

This is the path I received. This is the path I try to pass on. Not in words alone, but in how I live, how I teach, how I let go. If even one seed takes root, if even one student learns to give without fear—then love, once again, has done its quiet work.

“There is no one thing that is true. It is all true.” – Hemingway in "For Whom the Bell Tolls"