Gratitude

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14 mins September, 2026
Gratitude
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Two personal stories


By Chaitanya Carana Dasa

A Bottle of Water and a Stranger’s Kindness


During my Australian tour from April to June 2026, when I arrived in Melbourne from Wellington to take a connecting flight to Adelaide, I happened to be fasting as part of my naturopathy regimen. Normally, when fasting, I drink a good quantity of water. But on that flight, somehow I forgot to ask the flight attendant for water after boarding. Then I fell asleep, and by the time I woke up, the flight was already in descent. The flight attendant said that they could not provide me with water at that stage.

After I landed, I asked the wheelchair assistant for some water, and he said that we first had to get through immigration. That took some time. The queue was long, and immigration procedures also seemed quite slow. With the recent rise in anti-immigrant sentiment in some parts of Australia, especially after Indians became the country’s largest immigrant community, I couldn’t help wondering whether that broader atmosphere was having some effect.

After we finally got through immigration, he looked around but couldn’t find a water tap anywhere along the way. He suggested buying it from a shop, but I was hesitant because, thinking in Indian rupees, paying about four hundred rupees (five Australian dollars) for a bottle of water seemed extravagant. Then, after we collected my baggage from the carousel, he took me to the transfer counter because I had to change my airlines—my incoming flight to Melbourne had been with one airline, and my outgoing flight was with another. The wheelchair assistant handed me over at the transfer counter and left.

By this time, my thirst had become quite severe. I asked the ground staff member there how long it would take for a wheelchair assistant to come. She said, “Give me a minute.” She made a few calls, and after several minutes, she came out from behind the counter, walked behind me, and started pushing my wheelchair.

I was a bit surprised. I asked her, “Do you regularly have to double as a wheelchair assistant?” She replied, “Not regularly, but we all do whatever is required whenever it’s needed. Since no assistant was available just now, I’m helping out.”

She was quite slender and petite, and I am not particularly lightweight—to use the more politically correct term nowadays, I am horizontally gifted. Concerned that pushing the wheelchair through the large Melbourne airport might be difficult for her, I asked whether it was too strenuous. She replied with a chuckle, “I just treat it as part of my workout.” I thought that was a particularly clever reply—both polite and honest.

By this time, my thirst had become almost unbearable. I asked her whether there was any place where I could get some water. She said, “I’m sure we’ll find something ahead.” Eventually, we reached the boarding gate, but we still hadn’t found any water.

She dropped me there and walked away. I was a bit surprised that she didn’t mention the water and that she left without any parting word, such as “Have a nice day.” I assumed that was the end of our brief interaction.

But within a couple of minutes, she returned with a bottle of water that she had bought for me.

I was amazed, and I told her, “You needn’t have bought a bottle of water for me; I could have bought one myself. Let me pay for it.” I was just entering Australia, so I didn’t have any Australian dollars, but I could pay her in American dollars, which I carry for emergencies. She smiled and said, “No need to pay.”

She walked away, acknowledging my thanks with a wave of her hand. Her unexpected generosity set me thinking: what had motivated her?

What Was Happening in Her Heart?


No wheelchair assistant in India would likely have bought me a bottle of water. That is understandable because many of them belong to economically struggling families. Nor did I think this was something routinely done in America, where wheelchair assistants often expect tips as part of their income.

I wondered: could her generosity simply have been an Australian trait? From what I have read, Australians are charitable, without being uniquely more charitable than other nationals.

Then I wondered whether her generosity had been prompted by her faith. But I hadn’t seen anything overtly Christian about her. She hadn’t been wearing any prominent cross, nor had she tried to speak to me about Christianity.

The more I thought about it, the less any external explanation seemed adequate. Her kindness seemed free from any agenda—it was simply an expression of the goodness of her heart. And that was what had touched my heart.

Nowadays, we are bombarded by so much negative news—immense human suffering caused by wars, which are driven by religious ideologies, political agendas, or personal egos. Amid all that noisy negativity, this small reminder of the quiet goodness still alive in humanity was much-needed; it was reassuring, encouraging, heart-warming.

What Was Happening in My Heart?


Though I had an answer to the question about why her kindness had touched me so much, it raised another question: why did other acts of kindness not touch me in the same way?

After all, while traveling across the world, I was receiving so much kindness from so many people. Devotees were hosting me, driving me, arranging my meals, and giving donations to me. Had I become a living illustration of the saying—familiarity breeds contempt—or, in my case, forgetfulness? Had I stopped appreciating devotees simply because such kindness had become so routine for me that I felt entitled to it, rather than grateful for it?

That was definitely a possibility. I try to always express my thanks as sincerely as I can to anyone who assists me in any way, but I have noticed that such expressions can become mechanical, even perfunctory. There are a few times when I consciously take time to contemplate the efforts they have put into that service and then articulate my appreciation of their specific service in my distinctive words. On those occasions, my expression of gratitude comes from my heart and goes deeper into my heart.

As I resolved to become more conscious of acts of goodness that I encounter routinely, I felt a bigger question rising within me—why do we as human beings appreciate goodness and strive for it?

What Is Happening in Every Human Heart?


Does this appreciation for goodness come from faith?


I remembered a challenge from an atheist student after one of my classes in America. He said, “When religious people do good things, that doesn’t prove their goodness. It only proves their allegiance to their religion and their calculativeness—charity is simply their way of currying favor with God. When we atheists give charity, we expect nothing in return. That is why our charity is more laudable.”


I replied, “That’s a possibility, but it’s also an oversimplification. Atheists, too, can have an agenda. They may want to challenge the claim that religion makes people good, or demonstrate that atheists are more moral than theists. Richard Dawkins has pointed to studies suggesting that, in some societies, atheists give more than Christians. That, too, can be charity in the service of an ideology, quite distinct from the simple goodness of heart that just wants to benefit another person. Our motives are often mixed. To what extent our charity springs from ideological conviction and to what extent it springs from simple goodness of heart is rarely easy to determine.”


The wisdom of the Bhagavad-gita offers the answer that I have found most persuasive. Neither our biology nor even our psychology, by themselves, can fully explain why we admire the sacrifice of the strong for the sake of the weak. That appreciation points to something deeper—a moral compass built into human nature.

Where does that moral compass come from? From the all-good Divine who has implanted within us a pointer to goodness. The Bhagavad-gita (10.41) states that whatever is attractive in this world is but a spark of the Supreme’s attractiveness. Our self-giving tendency is one such attractive thing. It enables us to recognize what is good and, more importantly, to feel inspired by it.

Our actions may not always align with that God-given moral compass, but the compass itself remains. That airport attendant’s kindness reminded me that this moral compass is still alive in the human heart.

I prayed for her well-being—that her compass would point her further beyond goodness to God, the source of that goodness. I prayed that I may never become so accustomed to kindness that I stop noticing it. And I prayed that whatever service I render while traveling and speaking may arise not merely from a desire for my own spiritual advancement, but from a genuine desire to help others. May my moral compass thus become more active—and may my service help activate that same compass in others.

Gratitude Is a Gift


At a recent youth retreat in Mayapur, a devotee asked me, “When you became a brahmacari, 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 been asked before—either by someone else or even by my own mind. Yet this question was one such exception.

Second, it struck me as a perfectly reasonable question. I found myself wondering why nobody had ever asked me this before. Was it simply 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 while 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 realized that my answer needed some explanation. 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 is true of my crutches. Of course, using crutches is somewhat more cumbersome than wearing glasses, but beyond that, they occupy very little space in my thoughts.

Even after our conversation ended, however, 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 brahmacari. As I reflected on that period of my life, another memory came vividly alive.

I remembered expressing this desire to Radhesyama Prabhu, who was then the president of the ISKCON Pune temple. By then 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 anything further 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.

I found myself wondering how much my physical condition had been a consideration for Radhesyama Prabhu when I first approached him. Had he felt the need to consult anyone before deciding to accept me into the ashram?

I messaged him and asked whether he remembered the incident. His reply came 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.”

I read his message several times. With each reading, I found myself looking back at that moment differently. Until then, I had remembered it primarily as a decision that had required conviction on my part. For the first time, I began to see it from his side. I began to appreciate the courage it must have taken for someone else to accept me.

Gratitude’s quiet gift


That quiet shift in perspective brought a forceful realization. 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. 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 helped me understand another expression of gratitude that had long stayed with me.

In his Jaladuta diary, Srila Prabhupada notes that the ship—arranged through his patron, Sumati Morarji—had been thoughtfully supplied with vegetables and other necessities. Reflecting on those arrangements, he simply writes, “Thanks to Lord Sri Krishna for enlightening Sumati Morarji for all these arrangements.”

Earlier, I had appreciated that statement as an expression of gratitude. But now I saw something more. At the age of seventy, Srila Prabhupada was displaying extraordinary courage and sacrifice. 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 pause. Great souls have a remarkable way of remembering what they have received, even when what they have given may be far greater.

That, I realized, is one of gratitude’s quiet gifts. It shifts our attention from our own sacrifices to the many visible and invisible gifts that have made our journey possible.

Great souls have a remarkable way of remembering what they have received, even when what they have given may be far greater. That, I realized, is one of gratitude’s quiet gifts. It shifts our attention from our own sacrifices to the many visible and invisible gifts that have made our journey possible.


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 long been trying to bridge that gap. But this incident made me realize that there was an entire category of gifts I had overlooked.

There are gifts for which I genuinely feel grateful.

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

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

Recognizing one such hidden gift was a deeply spiritually enriching moment—a moment that came only by Krishna’s mercy through the sincere question of a young devotee.

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.

Increasingly, I pray not only to feel more gratitude, but also to see more clearly. I pray that I may become 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 opportunities others created for me.

Perhaps gratitude itself is one of the greatest gifts—not only because it fills our hearts, but because it enables us to recognize all the other gifts we have unknowingly received.Chaitanya Carana Dasa is the associate-editor of Back to Godhead (US and Indian editions). To read his daily Bhagavad-gita reflections, please subscribe to Gitadaily on his website, thespiritualscientist.com.

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Gratitude

Gratitude
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Two personal stories


By Chaitanya Carana Dasa

A Bottle of Water and a Stranger’s Kindness


During my Australian tour from April to June 2026, when I arrived in Melbourne from Wellington to take a connecting flight to Adelaide, I happened to be fasting as part of my naturopathy regimen. Normally, when fasting, I drink a good quantity of water. But on that flight, somehow I forgot to ask the flight attendant for water after boarding. Then I fell asleep, and by the time I woke up, the flight was already in descent. The flight attendant said that they could not provide me with water at that stage.

After I landed, I asked the wheelchair assistant for some water, and he said that we first had to get through immigration. That took some time. The queue was long, and immigration procedures also seemed quite slow. With the recent rise in anti-immigrant sentiment in some parts of Australia, especially after Indians became the country’s largest immigrant community, I couldn’t help wondering whether that broader atmosphere was having some effect.

After we finally got through immigration, he looked around but couldn’t find a water tap anywhere along the way. He suggested buying it from a shop, but I was hesitant because, thinking in Indian rupees, paying about four hundred rupees (five Australian dollars) for a bottle of water seemed extravagant. Then, after we collected my baggage from the carousel, he took me to the transfer counter because I had to change my airlines—my incoming flight to Melbourne had been with one airline, and my outgoing flight was with another. The wheelchair assistant handed me over at the transfer counter and left.

By this time, my thirst had become quite severe. I asked the ground staff member there how long it would take for a wheelchair assistant to come. She said, “Give me a minute.” She made a few calls, and after several minutes, she came out from behind the counter, walked behind me, and started pushing my wheelchair.

I was a bit surprised. I asked her, “Do you regularly have to double as a wheelchair assistant?” She replied, “Not regularly, but we all do whatever is required whenever it’s needed. Since no assistant was available just now, I’m helping out.”

She was quite slender and petite, and I am not particularly lightweight—to use the more politically correct term nowadays, I am horizontally gifted. Concerned that pushing the wheelchair through the large Melbourne airport might be difficult for her, I asked whether it was too strenuous. She replied with a chuckle, “I just treat it as part of my workout.” I thought that was a particularly clever reply—both polite and honest.

By this time, my thirst had become almost unbearable. I asked her whether there was any place where I could get some water. She said, “I’m sure we’ll find something ahead.” Eventually, we reached the boarding gate, but we still hadn’t found any water.

She dropped me there and walked away. I was a bit surprised that she didn’t mention the water and that she left without any parting word, such as “Have a nice day.” I assumed that was the end of our brief interaction.

But within a couple of minutes, she returned with a bottle of water that she had bought for me.

I was amazed, and I told her, “You needn’t have bought a bottle of water for me; I could have bought one myself. Let me pay for it.” I was just entering Australia, so I didn’t have any Australian dollars, but I could pay her in American dollars, which I carry for emergencies. She smiled and said, “No need to pay.”

She walked away, acknowledging my thanks with a wave of her hand. Her unexpected generosity set me thinking: what had motivated her?

What Was Happening in Her Heart?


No wheelchair assistant in India would likely have bought me a bottle of water. That is understandable because many of them belong to economically struggling families. Nor did I think this was something routinely done in America, where wheelchair assistants often expect tips as part of their income.

I wondered: could her generosity simply have been an Australian trait? From what I have read, Australians are charitable, without being uniquely more charitable than other nationals.

Then I wondered whether her generosity had been prompted by her faith. But I hadn’t seen anything overtly Christian about her. She hadn’t been wearing any prominent cross, nor had she tried to speak to me about Christianity.

The more I thought about it, the less any external explanation seemed adequate. Her kindness seemed free from any agenda—it was simply an expression of the goodness of her heart. And that was what had touched my heart.

Nowadays, we are bombarded by so much negative news—immense human suffering caused by wars, which are driven by religious ideologies, political agendas, or personal egos. Amid all that noisy negativity, this small reminder of the quiet goodness still alive in humanity was much-needed; it was reassuring, encouraging, heart-warming.

What Was Happening in My Heart?


Though I had an answer to the question about why her kindness had touched me so much, it raised another question: why did other acts of kindness not touch me in the same way?

After all, while traveling across the world, I was receiving so much kindness from so many people. Devotees were hosting me, driving me, arranging my meals, and giving donations to me. Had I become a living illustration of the saying—familiarity breeds contempt—or, in my case, forgetfulness? Had I stopped appreciating devotees simply because such kindness had become so routine for me that I felt entitled to it, rather than grateful for it?

That was definitely a possibility. I try to always express my thanks as sincerely as I can to anyone who assists me in any way, but I have noticed that such expressions can become mechanical, even perfunctory. There are a few times when I consciously take time to contemplate the efforts they have put into that service and then articulate my appreciation of their specific service in my distinctive words. On those occasions, my expression of gratitude comes from my heart and goes deeper into my heart.

As I resolved to become more conscious of acts of goodness that I encounter routinely, I felt a bigger question rising within me—why do we as human beings appreciate goodness and strive for it?

What Is Happening in Every Human Heart?


Does this appreciation for goodness come from faith?


I remembered a challenge from an atheist student after one of my classes in America. He said, “When religious people do good things, that doesn’t prove their goodness. It only proves their allegiance to their religion and their calculativeness—charity is simply their way of currying favor with God. When we atheists give charity, we expect nothing in return. That is why our charity is more laudable.”


I replied, “That’s a possibility, but it’s also an oversimplification. Atheists, too, can have an agenda. They may want to challenge the claim that religion makes people good, or demonstrate that atheists are more moral than theists. Richard Dawkins has pointed to studies suggesting that, in some societies, atheists give more than Christians. That, too, can be charity in the service of an ideology, quite distinct from the simple goodness of heart that just wants to benefit another person. Our motives are often mixed. To what extent our charity springs from ideological conviction and to what extent it springs from simple goodness of heart is rarely easy to determine.”


The wisdom of the Bhagavad-gita offers the answer that I have found most persuasive. Neither our biology nor even our psychology, by themselves, can fully explain why we admire the sacrifice of the strong for the sake of the weak. That appreciation points to something deeper—a moral compass built into human nature.

Where does that moral compass come from? From the all-good Divine who has implanted within us a pointer to goodness. The Bhagavad-gita (10.41) states that whatever is attractive in this world is but a spark of the Supreme’s attractiveness. Our self-giving tendency is one such attractive thing. It enables us to recognize what is good and, more importantly, to feel inspired by it.

Our actions may not always align with that God-given moral compass, but the compass itself remains. That airport attendant’s kindness reminded me that this moral compass is still alive in the human heart.

I prayed for her well-being—that her compass would point her further beyond goodness to God, the source of that goodness. I prayed that I may never become so accustomed to kindness that I stop noticing it. And I prayed that whatever service I render while traveling and speaking may arise not merely from a desire for my own spiritual advancement, but from a genuine desire to help others. May my moral compass thus become more active—and may my service help activate that same compass in others.

Gratitude Is a Gift


At a recent youth retreat in Mayapur, a devotee asked me, “When you became a brahmacari, 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 been asked before—either by someone else or even by my own mind. Yet this question was one such exception.

Second, it struck me as a perfectly reasonable question. I found myself wondering why nobody had ever asked me this before. Was it simply 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 while 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 realized that my answer needed some explanation. 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 is true of my crutches. Of course, using crutches is somewhat more cumbersome than wearing glasses, but beyond that, they occupy very little space in my thoughts.

Even after our conversation ended, however, 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 brahmacari. As I reflected on that period of my life, another memory came vividly alive.

I remembered expressing this desire to Radhesyama Prabhu, who was then the president of the ISKCON Pune temple. By then 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 anything further 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.

I found myself wondering how much my physical condition had been a consideration for Radhesyama Prabhu when I first approached him. Had he felt the need to consult anyone before deciding to accept me into the ashram?

I messaged him and asked whether he remembered the incident. His reply came 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.”

I read his message several times. With each reading, I found myself looking back at that moment differently. Until then, I had remembered it primarily as a decision that had required conviction on my part. For the first time, I began to see it from his side. I began to appreciate the courage it must have taken for someone else to accept me.

Gratitude’s quiet gift


That quiet shift in perspective brought a forceful realization. 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. 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 helped me understand another expression of gratitude that had long stayed with me.

In his Jaladuta diary, Srila Prabhupada notes that the ship—arranged through his patron, Sumati Morarji—had been thoughtfully supplied with vegetables and other necessities. Reflecting on those arrangements, he simply writes, “Thanks to Lord Sri Krishna for enlightening Sumati Morarji for all these arrangements.”

Earlier, I had appreciated that statement as an expression of gratitude. But now I saw something more. At the age of seventy, Srila Prabhupada was displaying extraordinary courage and sacrifice. 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 pause. Great souls have a remarkable way of remembering what they have received, even when what they have given may be far greater.

That, I realized, is one of gratitude’s quiet gifts. It shifts our attention from our own sacrifices to the many visible and invisible gifts that have made our journey possible.

Great souls have a remarkable way of remembering what they have received, even when what they have given may be far greater. That, I realized, is one of gratitude’s quiet gifts. It shifts our attention from our own sacrifices to the many visible and invisible gifts that have made our journey possible.


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 long been trying to bridge that gap. But this incident made me realize that there was an entire category of gifts I had overlooked.

There are gifts for which I genuinely feel grateful.

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

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

Recognizing one such hidden gift was a deeply spiritually enriching moment—a moment that came only by Krishna’s mercy through the sincere question of a young devotee.

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.

Increasingly, I pray not only to feel more gratitude, but also to see more clearly. I pray that I may become 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 opportunities others created for me.

Perhaps gratitude itself is one of the greatest gifts—not only because it fills our hearts, but because it enables us to recognize all the other gifts we have unknowingly received.Chaitanya Carana Dasa is the associate-editor of Back to Godhead (US and Indian editions). To read his daily Bhagavad-gita reflections, please subscribe to Gitadaily on his website, thespiritualscientist.com.