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A cowherd tended his cattle. Each day, when he brought his cows to the forest, one beautiful, unfamiliar cow would join his herd. In the evening, when he returned home, this cow would accompany them for a while before mysteriously disappearing. The cowherd wondered: to whom does this cow belong? He saw no owner. Driven by curiosity and the thought that he deserved some payment for minding the cow, he decided to follow it one day. After many months, his chance came. He trailed the cow into a hilly area where it entered a small cave. He followed. As darkness enveloped the cave, he grasped the cow’s tail to avoid getting lost. In the pitch black, fear arose. He regretted his greedy motive, thinking, “If the cow runs, I’ll lose hold and be lost forever.” Terrified, he began to repeat his mantra with all his heart, holding the tail with both hands. This was a true ajapa-japa, an involuntary, heartfelt prayer. The mantra was a plea for relief: “Sab dukha banjan”—“Please remove all my pain, suffering, sorrow, and trouble.” The cow moved swiftly. After ten or fifteen minutes walking through the cave, the space widened. A faint evening light filtered in, revealing a sky opening, a waterfall, and then a beautiful, radiant light ahead. The cow walked toward this light. A very thin sādhu appeared, took the cow to its resting place, and then turned to the cowherd, who stood there frightened. The sādhu smiled and said, “Come, brother. I will take you to my master.” He was led to the master, an elderly, thin figure with a luminous, light body, sitting in radiance. The master greeted him: “How are you, my son? You have come after a long time. Do you have any complaint about my cow? Is she disciplined, or does she run away?” The cowherd replied, “No, sir. She is a very nice, kind cow. I am happy to have seen her. My only curiosity was to know to whom she belongs—such a beautiful, well-kept cow that appears and disappears.” The master smiled. “Yes, and you were also expecting some reward, money from the cow.” The cowherd admitted, “Yes, but that is not my priority, sir.” The master said, “We are sādhus here; we have no money. You may drink the cow’s milk. We eat roots from the forest and have a small field for grain. Here, this is for you.” He gave the cowherd a handful of barley—long, brown grains with little needles. The cowherd received it in the fold of his towel, wrapped it up—it was only a handful—and the master called his disciple, Totāpurī, to guide him back out of the cave. Totāpurī was to lead him out and, since it was nearly dark, ensure he reached home safely, as guards would soon arrive at the cave’s entrance—a few lions. The cowherd prayed fervently, “Mahāprabhujī, please, I want nothing, just to get out.” Yet, within, he felt relaxed and filled with a divine light, though he was not fully aware of it. As Kabīr Dās said, “I must laugh very much that I see a fish thirsty in the water.” Often, we do not realize what we have or where we are, comparing ourselves to the impurities of the worldly māyā. One part of him did not wish to leave, but the surface part—his physical, mortal self—wanted to flee. The sādhu guided him out. As the cowherd walked away from the master, doubts arose in his mind. “For a year and a half, I looked after his cow! And what did he give me? Some clever words and just a handful of this barley, these weeds.” Totāpurī led him past the cave guards, including lion cubs, and accompanied him to the village outskirts. Once the sādhu left, the cowherd, now angry, opened the knot in his towel, shook it out violently, threw the barley away, rearranged his shawl, and went home. His wife was waiting. “Where have you been? What happened?” she asked when he arrived around nine. As he told the whole story, she noticed something sparkling in the fold of his scarf. “What is that?” she asked. “Nothing,” he replied. “He gave me a handful of barley, and I threw it away.” She looked and saw about ten or eleven pieces still clinging to the cloth. They were not barley; they were diamonds. “Wait a minute!” he cried. He ran back, his wife following, asking what was wrong. He searched everywhere, but it was too late. That cave is this very place where we have our musṭhi (gathering). And now you think: What do I hear? My knee aching? My back aching? And what I heard? Some stories of Vedas, Vākas, Prakāśas—I do not understand. Just a handful. I do not want all this. So many sermons. But when you return home, you will realize what remains stuck somewhere in the mind. Oh God, how nice it was. When you get home, you can recognize those few pieces still glued to the brain. God, how beautiful it was there!