Friday, June 5, 2026

Nature's Own Sealed Drink.

His majesty seen here too  its all over the place we need the time and patience to watch it.

A coconut palm may stand 20 or 30 meters tall, yet water drawn from the soil rises all the way to the crown, carrying minerals and nutrients upward against gravity. Science explains the process through root pressure, capillary action, and transpiration, but the fact itself remains astonishing. Every day, without pumps, engines, or human intervention, millions of trees perform this feat silently.

And then the palm does something even more remarkable. It does not merely transport water; it transforms it. What began as ordinary groundwater becomes a balanced, nourishing liquid sealed inside a living vessel suspended high above the earth.

One can spend a lifetime studying the mechanisms, and still retain a sense of wonder.

Many spiritual traditions encourage precisely this kind of seeing—not looking beyond the world for miracles, but recognizing the extraordinary hidden within the ordinary. A coconut hanging from a palm tree, a seed becoming a forest, a flower knowing when to bloom, a bird navigating thousands of kilometers—these are not separate from magnificence; they are manifestations of it.

The poet-saints often saw the Divine in this way. For them, every object in nature was a commentary on God's wisdom. As Narsinh Mehta sang, the entire universe shines with the presence of Hari. The wonder was not only in temples and scriptures but also in the workings of creation itself.

Perhaps that is why such things bring joy. The coconut is not merely a drink. It is a lesson hanging from a tree: ordinary water enters, something far richer emerges, and all of it happens quietly, without fanfare.

When we notice such things, gratitude arises naturally. The world begins to look less like a collection of objects and more like an ongoing revelation.

Meanwhile, the coconut itself is one of nature's remarkable creations.

The Magic of Coconut Water

Nature's Own Sealed Drink

A tender coconut is essentially a natural, sterile water container. The coconut develops high on the palm tree, protected by a thick fibrous husk and a hard shell. Inside is the clear liquid we call coconut water.

Unlike many fruits whose interiors are exposed to air once ripe, coconut water remains sealed until the shell is opened. This natural packaging protects it from contamination and preserves its freshness.

How Is Coconut Water Manufactured by Nature?

The coconut palm draws water and minerals from the soil through its roots. Through photosynthesis, the leaves create sugars and other nutrients.

As the coconut develops:

Water is transported into the young fruit.

Sugars, minerals, amino acids, and vitamins are dissolved in this liquid.

The liquid serves as nourishment for the developing seed.

As the coconut matures, part of this liquid is converted into the white coconut kernel (the meat).

Thus coconut water is not simply rainwater stored in a fruit. It is a carefully regulated nutrient solution created by the tree itself.

What's Inside Coconut Water?

The exact composition varies with age and variety, but it generally contains:

Water (about 94–95%)

Natural sugars

Potassium

Sodium

Magnesium

Calcium

Phosphorus

Small amounts of amino acids

Vitamin C and trace vitamins

Potassium is especially abundant, which is why coconut water is often valued for hydration.

Why Is It So Refreshing?

When we perspire, we lose water and electrolytes. Coconut water naturally contains several of these minerals, making it refreshing after physical activity or hot weather.

This is one reason it has been treasured for centuries in tropical regions.

The Coconut's Extraordinary Design

Every part of the coconut has a purpose:

The fibrous husk helps it float across oceans.

The hard shell protects the seed.

The water nourishes the embryo.

The kernel stores food for the future plant.

A coconut can drift for long distances at sea and still sprout when it reaches land. Few fruits are so perfectly designed for survival and dispersal.

Traditional Uses

In India, coconut water has long been valued:

As a cooling drink during summer.

As a refreshing offering during pilgrimages.

In traditional hospitality.

During recovery from fatigue and dehydration.

Tender coconut is also associated with purity and auspiciousness in many religious traditions.

The coconut is often offered to the Lord in temples. Its outer husk is rough, its shell is hard, but within lies pure water and nourishing sweetness. Many saints have seen in this a lesson for spiritual life: beneath the hard exterior of the human ego lies the pure self seeking the Divine.

The tender coconut hanging high among the palm leaves is a quiet miracle. The tree draws ordinary water from the earth and transforms it into one of nature's most refreshing drinks—a daily reminder that creation contains wonders we often overlook.


https://youtube.com/shorts/SdlZIUPWk7Y?si=ja2ww_423fyDkFKW

Thursday, June 4, 2026

How to.

 How to Prepare for Life's Big Moments

Life's biggest moments rarely arrive with a drumroll. A wedding, the birth of a child, a new responsibility, retirement, the loss of a loved one, a spiritual awakening, or an unexpected opportunity—all these can change the course of our lives. Yet no one can prepare perfectly for them. What we can do is cultivate the qualities that allow us to meet them well.

1. Prepare the Person, Not the Event

Most people focus on the event itself.

How do I succeed?

How do I avoid mistakes?

How do I impress others?

But the deeper preparation is to become the kind of person who can face whatever arrives.

A strong tree survives storms not because it knows when the storm will come, but because its roots are deep.

Similarly, patience, integrity, humility, courage, and faith are roots that support us through life's turning points.

2. Small Duties Prepare Us for Great Duties

Great responsibilities are usually entrusted to those who have been faithful in small responsibilities.

A young man who cares for his family, keeps his word, and fulfills ordinary duties is quietly preparing for greater roles. A student who develops discipline is preparing for opportunities not yet visible.

Life often examines us through everyday tasks before presenting extraordinary ones.

3. Learn Before You Need the Knowledge

One of the wisest habits is to learn ahead of necessity.

We study health before illness. We learn values before temptation. We cultivate faith before hardship.

A reservoir is filled before the drought arrives.

The Vedic tradition places great emphasis on daily spiritual practice because moments of crisis are not the best time to begin building inner strength.

4. Accept That Uncertainty Is Part of Every Great Moment

No parent feels fully ready for a first child. No leader feels completely prepared for major responsibility. No devotee can fully anticipate a profound spiritual experience.

The desire for complete certainty often delays action.

Many of life's greatest blessings begin with stepping forward despite incomplete knowledge.

5. Keep Good Company

Before important moments, the influence of good people becomes invaluable.

Wise friends, elders, teachers, and saints can often see what we cannot. Their experience provides perspective when emotions cloud judgment.

In the Indian tradition, satsanga—the company of noble souls—is considered one of the greatest preparations for any stage of life.

6. Prepare Spiritually

Material preparation has limits.

There comes a point where planning, effort, and intelligence cannot control the outcome.

At that point, surrender becomes strength.

The devotee learns to pray:

"I will do my duty with all my ability, and I will leave the results at the feet of the Lord."

This attitude removes fear without reducing effort.

7. Remember That Every Big Moment Passes

The examination ends. The wedding day passes. The promotion becomes routine. The challenge fades.

What remains is the character that was shaped through the experience.

Life's great moments are not merely events to survive or celebrate. They are opportunities through which the Divine shapes the soul.

A Final Reflection

When we look back, we often realize that life's biggest moments were preparing us for something even greater.

The child becomes a parent. The student becomes a teacher. The seeker becomes a guide. The devotee becomes a source of inspiration for others.

Perhaps the best preparation for life's big moments is not anxiety, but readiness of heart:

Do today's duty well. Learn continuously. Keep noble company. Trust the Lord.

Then, when the great moment arrives, you may discover that life has been preparing you for it all along.

Perhaps because you are at a stage of life where you naturally look at events not merely as experiences, but as lessons.

Many people ask, "How do I get through this moment?" But your question was broader: "How do we prepare for life's big moments?" That is the question of someone reflecting on the pattern of life itself.

As we grow older, we begin to notice that the truly important moments were often not the ones we anticipated. A conversation changed a life. A book opened a new path. A saint's verse stayed in the heart for decades. A child's achievement filled us with unexpected joy. Looking back, we wonder whether we recognized those moments when they arrived.

That realization can naturally lead to the question: How should one live so as to be ready for whatever matters most?

The sages often answered this very simply:

Do not prepare for a particular moment; prepare the mind.

A well-tuned veena can play any raga. A well-prepared field can receive any season. A God-centered heart can receive joy, sorrow, success, responsibility, and grace.

 Not because there is a great moment" ahead, but because  reflecting on how a lifetime of small moments prepares us for the larger ones.

As the saying goes:

"The fruit ripens quietly. The tree does not know the exact day. Yet every day of sunlight and rain has been preparing it." 

Human life may be much the same.

Wednesday, June 3, 2026

Avadhani

 Avadhāna Vidyā (अवधान विद्या) is one of the most remarkable intellectual traditions of India. The word avadhāna means attention, concentration, and mental focus.

An Avadhāni is a scholar who can simultaneously attend to multiple tasks, remember large amounts of information, compose poetry on the spot, solve linguistic challenges, and answer questions from several people at once—all without notes.

What happens in an Avadhānam?

Several questioners (pṛcchakas) challenge the Avadhāni with different tasks simultaneously. For example:

Compose a poem in a specified meter.

Use certain words in a verse.

Avoid a particular letter.

Solve riddles.

Recall a sequence of unrelated items.

Answer philosophical questions.

Keep track of interruptions and distractions.

The Avadhāni moves from one questioner to another, giving only part of the answer each round. After many rounds, he completes all tasks and then recalls everything in exact order.

Types of Avadhānam

Aṣṭāvadhānam — attention to 8 tasks.

Śatāvadhānam — attention to 100 tasks.

Sahasrāvadhānam — attention to 1,000 tasks (extremely rare).

How is it possible?

Traditional scholars explain it as the fruit of:

Deep study of Sanskrit and classical literature.

Extraordinary memory training.

Years of meditation and concentration.

Mastery of poetic forms.

Mental discipline developed through sādhanā.

In Indian thought, Avadhāna is not merely a display of memory. It demonstrates the mind's hidden capacities when disciplined and purified.

Famous Avadhānis

Among the renowned modern practitioners are Madugula Nagaphani Sharma, Garikapati Narasimha Rao, and Medasani Mohan. The tradition has flourished especially in Telugu and Sanskrit literary circles.

A Spiritual Reflection

Indian sages often distinguished between smṛti (memory) and jñāna (wisdom). Avadhāna Vidyā showcases the astonishing power of memory and concentration, but the saints remind us that the highest use of attention is fixing the mind on the Divine.

As many bhakti traditions teach, if the mind can hold a hundred tasks at once, how much more powerful it becomes when steadily absorbed in the remembrance of the Lord. In that sense, Avadhāna Vidyā is not merely a literary art—it is also a glimpse of the untapped potential of human consciousness.

Avadhānam is traditionally associated with Sanskrit, Telugu, Kannada, and other classical literary traditions. While extraordinary memory is part of it, the art also involves improvisational poetry, attention management, logic, language mastery, and composure under distraction.

Dr. R Ganesh was conferred the Padma Bhushan  recently shatavadhani.



Tuesday, June 2, 2026

Pride india.


 “Indian women who received the UN Military Gender Advocate of the Year Award”

 Indian recipients:

1. Major Suman Gawani — 2019 (co-recipient)

Suman Gawani

First Indian to receive the award.

Served with the UN Mission in South Sudan (UNMISS).

Recognized for promoting women’s participation, mentoring military observers, and integrating gender perspectives in peacekeeping. 

2. Major Radhika Sen — 2023 Award (presented in 2024)

Radhika Sen

Served with MONUSCO in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Led community engagement efforts, supported women and girls in conflict-affected areas, and helped create community alert networks for security and humanitarian concerns. 

3. Major Abhilasha Barak — 2025 Award

Abhilasha Barak

Serving with UNIFIL in Lebanon.

Honoured for outreach work with women and adolescent girls and for gender-sensitisation training of peacekeepers. She is also known as the Indian Army’s first woman combat helicopter pilot. 

 India has produced multiple UN Military Gender Advocate awardees, reflecting its long and significant role in UN peacekeeping missions.

An Indian solution.

 This image is presenting a traditional Indian large-number naming system, some of which are rarely used today.




The commonly used Indian numbering system is:

Number

Indian Name

10

Ten

100

Hundred

1,000

Thousand

10,000

Ten Thousand

1,00,000

Lakh

10,00,000

Ten Lakh (One Million)

1,00,00,000

Crore

10,00,00,000

Ten Crore

1,00,00,00,000

Arab

1,00,00,00,00,000

Kharab

1,00,00,00,00,00,000

Neel

1,00,00,00,00,00,00,000

Padma

1,00,00,00,00,00,00,00,000

Shankh

After Shankh, names such as Maha Shankh, Antya, Madhya, Parardha, etc. appear in Sanskrit mathematical and cosmological literature, but they are not part of everyday usage.

What is fascinating is that ancient Indian mathematicians were comfortable dealing with unimaginably large numbers. In Vedic, Jain, Buddhist, and later mathematical texts, names were assigned to numbers extending far beyond what most civilizations regularly used.

For example:

Lakh = 10⁵

Crore = 10⁷

Arab = 10⁹

Kharab = 10¹¹

Neel = 10¹³

Padma = 10¹⁵

Shankh = 10¹⁷

The love of large numbers appears throughout Indian literature. The Puranas describe vast cycles of time. Jain texts enumerate enormous quantities. Astronomers such as Aryabhata and Brahmagupta worked comfortably with very large calculations.

For a devotional reflection, one might say:

The sages who named numbers up to Shankh, Padma, and beyond were not merely counting wealth or objects. They were contemplating a universe so vast that ordinary counting seemed inadequate. Yet the same scriptures remind us that the Lord who sustains countless worlds also dwells within the heart of a single devotee. The infinite and the intimate meet in Him.

The Indian Number System Meets Modern Life

A foreigner asks an Indian:

“Sir, how much is your country's population?”

Indian: “Roughly one hundred and forty crore.”

Foreigner (opening calculator): “Wait… crore? Is that after million or before billion?”

Indian: “Yes.”

The Western system politely climbs:

Million.

Billion.

Trillion.

Quadrillion.

The Indian system arrives carrying a family tree.

Lakh.

Crore.

Arab.

Kharab.

Neel.

Padma.

Shankh.

By this point the calculator has developed spiritual detachment.

A child in school asks:

“Papa, what comes after crore?”

Papa: “Arab.”

“After Arab?”

“Kharab.”

“After Kharab?”

“Neel.”

“After Neel?”

“Padma.”

“After Padma?”

“Shankh.”

“After Shankh?”

Papa becomes philosophical.

“Beta, after that marks don't matter. Character matters.”

Ancient Indian sages apparently looked at numbers and thought:

“One million? Cute. Continue.”

The rest of humanity was busy counting goats.

India was naming quantities large enough to count stars, kalpas, karmas, and perhaps the number of times relatives ask: “Beta, when are you visiting?”

Bank balance:

₹ 842.75

Imagination:

“One day… crores.”

Indian optimism has always skipped comfortably from hundreds to crores without consulting mathematics.

The Puranic rishi announces:

“There are countless universes.”

Disciple asks nervously:

“How many, Gurudeva?”

Rishi replies calmly:

“Bring a larger palm leaf.”

Modern office conversation:

“How much stress do you have?”

Employee: “Approximately one kharab emails, three neel deadlines, and a padma level meeting scheduled for Monday.”

And somewhere in eternity, Numbers themselves are talking.

Million says proudly, “I am huge.”

Crore smiles gently.

Shankh does not even attend the meeting.

Moral:

In India, even numbers refuse to remain ordinary.

They meditate, expand, acquire Sanskrit names, and eventually wander into cosmology.

If Indian Numbers Ran Family WhatsApp Groups

One Thousand enters politely.

“Good morning everyone.”

Lakh forwards 27 messages before breakfast.

Crore owns three businesses, two investment plans, and still sends:

“Share this with 11 people for blessings.”

Arab has stopped counting unread notifications.

Kharab runs the family wedding budget.

Wedding discussion:

“How many sweets shall we order?”

Normal family: “Five hundred.”

Indian family: “Better keep extra.”

“How extra?”

“One lakh.”

“There are only 300 guests!”

“Still… keep extra.”

Indian parents discussing marks:

“Out of 100?”

“98.”

Expression: mild disappointment.

Expectation: one crore percent performance.

Indian mythology and numbers.

Ordinary storyteller:

“There were many stars.”

Indian sage:

“There were countless worlds across vast cycles of time.”

Disciple: “How many exactly?”

Sage: “Sit down. This will require Arab–Kharab–Padma vocabulary.”

Meanwhile the calculator app says:

“I signed up for grocery totals and electricity bills.”

Indian civilization:

“Excellent. Today we calculate cosmic time cycles.”

Conversation between modern banker and ancient rishi.

Banker: “How much wealth do you possess?”

Rishi: “Nothing.”

Banker: “Nothing?”

Rishi: “Also, I contemplate universes measured in numbers beyond Shankh.”

Banker quietly closes laptop.

Indian imagination has a unique habit.

Salary: modest.

Dreams: crore-sized.

Faith: shankh-sized.

Hospitality: immeasurable.

And perhaps this is the hidden charm of the Indian number system.

We did not stop at “million” and “billion.”

We continued naming vastness itself — as if the mind refused to accept that infinity should remain anonymous.

When Ancient India Refused Small Numbers

Most people use numbers for practical things.

“Three mangoes.”

“Five cows.”

“Ten pots.”

Ancient Indian thinkers looked at the night sky and apparently said:

“Not enough challenge.”

“How many grains of sand on a beach?”

“Too many.”

“How many stars in the heavens?”

“Too many.”

“How many years in cosmic cycles?”

“Too many.”

Indian mathematicians:

“Good. We shall need additional vocabulary.”

Someone invents Lakh and Crore.

A sage raises his hand.

“We are going to need bigger containers.”

Enter:

Arab.

Kharab.

Neel.

Padma.

Shankh.

At this point ordinary counting has resigned from the job.

Modern computer:

“Error: number too large.”

Ancient imagination:

“Please continue.”

Disciple asks:

“Master, why invent such enormous numbers?”

Master replies:

“To discuss stars, universes, kalpas… and perhaps the number of grains of sand on all beaches combined.”

Disciple:

“Could we not simply say ‘very many’?”

Master:

“Where is the intellectual joy in that?”

A machine tries counting sand particles.

Halfway through the first desert:

Battery low.

Ancient cosmological literature:

“Now let us begin discussing the lifespan of Brahma.”

Calculator quietly seeks enlightenment.

One suspects ancient civilizations occasionally competed.

Civilization A: “We counted armies.”

Civilization B: “We counted wealth.”

Indian sage:

“We attempted numbers suitable for galaxies and cosmic time.”

Everyone else slowly puts away their abacus.

And perhaps that is the hidden beauty.

These huge numbers were not invented merely for bookkeeping.

They emerged from minds trying to think about the almost uncountable — stars, ages, worlds, atoms, grains of sand, vastness itself.

When reality became too large for ordinary language, new names were created.

A rather Indian solution.

Don't you think :

This is delightfully offbeat — humor mixed with mathematics, cosmology, and a touch of civilizational wonder.

Sunday, May 31, 2026

God in the Monsoon

 “God in the Monsoon.” It can be seen through nature, poetry, devotion, and philosophy.





When summer burns the earth into silence, the monsoon arrives not merely as weather but as grace made visible.

The first cloud gathers on the horizon. The wind changes its voice. The smell of wet earth rises — that mysterious fragrance (petrichor) which feels older than memory. In India, countless hearts have looked at these clouds and thought instinctively: “The Lord is coming.”

The dark raincloud has long been a symbol of divinity. Lord Krishna himself is described as श्याम — cloud-dark, beautiful like a fresh monsoon cloud. The poets did not choose this image casually.

Why a raincloud?

Because the cloud:

draws water from the sea but gives freely to all;

expects no repayment;

nourishes fields, forests, rivers, birds, animals, and human beings alike.

So too, the Divine gathers the hidden tears, prayers, and karmas of beings and returns them as unseen sustenance.

The monsoon teaches dependence and abundance simultaneously.

The farmer watches the sky. Seeds wait underground. Peacocks dance before the rain arrives, sensing what humans cannot yet see. The entire natural world lives in expectation.

Is this not also the condition of the devotee?

The heart prepares, waits, longs.

Then grace falls.

Not always as thunderous revelation. Sometimes softly — like steady rain entering thirsty soil.

Indian saints repeatedly saw spiritual meanings in the rains.

Kalidasa in Meghaduta made a cloud into a messenger of longing.

Narsinh Mehta sang of the Lord moving among ordinary lives with tenderness that often feels monsoon-like — intimate, fertile, overflowing.

Mirabai turned longing for Krishna into an inner rainy season where separation itself nourishes devotion.

The monsoon also reveals another face of God: power.

Lightning, swollen rivers, roaring skies — these remind us that nature is not merely gentle beauty. Creation is vast, untamed, beyond human scheduling. Ancient people looked at storm and rain and sensed divine majesty.

Yet after the storm comes renewal.

Dry wells fill.

Dust disappears.

Trees recover their forgotten green.

One understands why rain became a symbol of compassion in so many traditions.

Perhaps “God in the monsoon” is not only God in the rain.

It is God in:

the waiting before the rain,

the scent of first wet earth,

the farmer’s relief,

the child splashing in puddles,

the temple bell sounding through mist,

the peacock opening its feathers to a darkening sky.

The monsoon reminds us of a spiritual truth: life is not sustained by human effort alone.

Something descends.

Something is given.

And when it comes, the world becomes green again.

God in the Monsoon

Before the rain,

the earth waits —

cracked lips turned upward,

like a silent prayer.

Far away,

a dark cloud gathers,

soft as compassion,

vast as eternity.

The wind arrives first,

carrying secret news

through neem leaves, temple flags,

and restless peacocks.

Then —

the fragrance of first rain.

Who taught dry soil

to remember heaven?

Drops begin to fall.

On tiled roofs,

on sleeping seeds,

on wandering cattle,

on shrines hidden beneath banyan trees.

No door is asked to open.

No name is checked.

The rain gives

as the Lord gives.

The river awakens.

Dust loosens its grip.

Fields whisper green promises.

And somewhere,

a flute seems hidden

inside the sound of water.

O Lord of monsoon clouds,

dark as gathered rain,

pour also upon the heart

that grace

which turns hard ground

into flowering devotion.

Let my mind become

a waiting field.

Let Your mercy fall

without measure.

And let something long asleep within me

rise singing

like the earth

after rain.

Cloud-dark Lord,

You walk hidden in the monsoon sky.

Your footsteps are thunder,

Your glance — lightning,

Your kindness — rain.

The peacock dances before You arrive;

the thirsty earth knows Your name.

Pour once upon my heart

as You pour upon the waiting fields.

Make devotion grow there —

green, fragrant, endless.



Saturday, May 30, 2026

The saint who widens the path

What do we notice in great souls like Narsi Mehta, Ramanujacharya, Mirabai, and Kalidasa?

Not merely that they sought God — but that they never walk alone.

Each opened a door.

Many spiritual seekers may quietly pursue personal liberation. But some rare souls seem unable to keep spiritual treasure confined to themselves.

Narsi Mehta sang in the language of ordinary villagers. He brought Krishna into homes, streets, marriages, tears, and festivals. His bhajans made devotion singable by everyone.

Ramanujacharya did something revolutionary. Tradition recounts that he publicly shared the sacred mantra despite warnings to keep it restricted — because if a teaching could save souls, how could compassion allow secrecy? Whether scholar or servant, everyone was invited into divine grace.

Mirabai dissolved social barriers. A royal woman walked among saints, singers, and common devotees, declaring that Krishna belonged not to status, caste, learning, or privilege — but to love.

Kalidasa, though not usually called a bhakti saint, filled his poetry with accessible beauty. Through nature, love, longing, seasons, and cosmic wonder, he taught people to perceive the sacred texture of existence.

Their methods differed, but their instinct was similar:

“Come. Walk with me.”

God and the gathered devotee

The Lord is pleased when He sees the devotee accompanied by the masses.

Bhakti literature repeatedly hints at this.

The saint often does not pray merely:

"Grant me liberation."

Instead, one hears:

"May all beings remember You."

"May Your name spread."

"May no one be left outside."

In many traditions, God is portrayed as especially delighted not only by devotion, but by shared devotion.

Why?

Because divine love, by its nature, overflows.

A lamp naturally lights other lamps.

A realized soul often becomes restless until others also taste what they have tasted.

From personal realization to shared awakening

Perhaps this is one of the great lessons from the saints:

Spiritual realization is not only ascent; it is inclusion.

The true devotee does not climb the mountain and pull the ladder away.

They sing loudly enough for people in the valley to hear.

Ramanuja opens temple doors.

Narsi Mehta sings in the marketplace.

Mirabai sings in the streets.

Many saints translate the inaccessible into the intimate.

The movement is always toward widening circles.

Why the Lord may delight in this

If one views the Divine as the indwelling Self of all beings, then every soul's awakening is precious.

The saint's compassion begins to mirror divine compassion.

The devotee slowly begins to desire what God desires — not merely “my salvation” but the flowering of all souls.

This is close to the spirit of lokasangraha in the Bhagavad Gita — acting for the welfare, cohesion, and upliftment of the world.

One could even say:

The highest devotees do not stand before God saying, “Here I am.”

They arrive saying,

“Lord, I have brought others with me.”

That may be one of the hidden signatures of greatness.