My journey into the helping space began with Mitr, Wipro’s internal counselling initiative. Mitr was the brainchild of Kayo Shroff, then General Manager at CHRD and a counsellor at Vishwas, with Ranjan Acharya, then Head of CHRD, as its enthusiastic sponsor. They called for nominations, and I joined half self‑motivated, half nudged by my then boss, SMR. He knew I had completed a month‑long NLP course with Dr. Richard McHugh and had enrolled for an MA in Psychology with IGNOU, so he suggested I apply. The application itself was unusual — I still have a copy.
One of the questions read: “Describe yourself in 5 words. No qualifications, titles, skills etc. to be included.” My answer, characteristically, spilled beyond the limit: “I am what I (am + can be + will be). What I am = committed, sincere, open‑minded and witty.” There were a few more questions, including two essay‑style prompts: one asking me to describe a time in my life when I was absolutely broken inside and was helped by another, and another asking how I, in turn, had helped someone in a similar situation. Even before I was formally trained, those questions made me pause and look inward — a reminder that the heart of helping work is not in the techniques we wield, but in the humanity we share.
I ended up in the first cohort of Mitr counsellors. Ranjan and Kayo would jokingly call us the “co‑founders” of Mitr. It was, in every sense, a selfless service. We offered our time after hours, guarded the anonymity of those who came to us with fierce loyalty, and never discussed their cases. This work existed outside our professional duties — it could never be an excuse for unmet targets. The spirit was simple: you gave your presence freely, without any expectation of reward.
Our training was led by Dr. Uttara, a week that has stayed with me all these years. It was there she suggested a book to the group, though I felt the suggestion was meant particularly for me: On Becoming a Person by Carl Rogers. I had just finished my NLP course, and those were heady days; in that world, it was easy to feel that after a single training you could stride into the world as the next Anthony Robbins. Dr. Uttara, I think, sensed that intoxication — the seductive belief that with the right technique, you could “fix” anyone. Her recommendation of Rogers was a quiet counterweight. His humanistic approach isn’t about clever reframes or rapid interventions; it’s about presence, congruence, unconditional positive regard. It’s about being with, rather than doing to.
Years later, I became a certified leadership coach. By then, I had sat on both sides of the helping relationship — as the one offering support, and as the one seeking it. During my own struggle with depression, I was referred to a counsellor. They were helpful, and they charged for their time. And that was appropriate. Counselling is a service that offers value, and value has a price. It was a sobering but vital realization: the helping professions are not immune to economic realities. Skill, ethics, and livelihood must find a way to coexist — sometimes in harmony, sometimes in tension.
For two years, I lived a dual life: a Zen student and a full‑time breadwinner for my family, alongside my better half. Then, last December, I moved into the Zendo. Before I arrived, Fr. AMA wrote me a welcome email. He called it shokku tuddedo and reminded me that the most critical relationship we must resolve is the one with money. The world, he said, will wonderfully provide for our needs, but our wants — and sometimes our greed — are a bottomless gulf. His words stayed with me. I distributed all my wealth and possessions before I left home. I stepped into the Zendo with empty hands and a lighter heart. I still work enough to provide for Manu and Rishi’s education for the next few years, but beyond that, I am largely self‑sufficient.
And yet, I was quite at sea for a while. After living for fifty‑four years in one fashion, it is not easy to be that detached. In our minds, the lines between genuine need, want, and greed are often too thin — or not there at all.
At the temple of Ryōan‑ji in Kyoto, Japan, there is a hand‑washing basin along the rear of the building, engraved with four kanji. Alone, they have no meaning, but a fifth kanji, formed by the central water basin, completes the phrase: ware tada taru shiru. When I googled, the English brochure translated it as, “I learn only to be contented.”
Fr. AMA had asked us to have this framed and placed above his dokusan room.Last June 2025, for the first time since I began working in March 1995, no salary was credited to my account — only an automated bank message came reminding me to maintain a minimum balance. Perhaps just another serendipitous moment: the right message at the right time. There is a Zen saying, “The master arrives when the student is ready.” Paraphrased, “The teaching comes when one needs it most.” — My initiation was exactly that..
Naturally, my way of being in the marketplace has shifted. I let go of fixed prices and moved to a contributory scale — pro bono, low bono, or “pay as per your ability.” It is a natural fit for a Zen student and soon‑to‑be monk. And it works, beautifully. Often, the amount people choose to give is more than I would have asked for. There is a quiet dignity in this exchange; it trusts the other person’s inherent sense of fairness and frees me from the subtle grasping that can creep into fixed‑fee work. It feels less like a transaction and more like a shared act of respect.
This tension between making a living and staying true to one’s calling is an ancient one. History is filled with those without inheritance who navigated the same crossroads. Socrates taught without payment, relying on the support of friends. Buddhist monks lived on alms, yet debated in lean times whether they could farm or teach for a fee. Artists without patrons chose between poverty and adapting to the market. Galileo balanced his research with paid court appointments. Jane Addams built her social reform on donations from sources she sometimes questioned. The question has always been the same: how does one remain true to purpose within the economic systems available? The answer often lies in adaptation — relying on patronage, creating hybrid models, or embracing radical simplicity to reduce dependence on the market.
In Zen, there is a classic teaching illustrated in the Ten Ox‑Herding Pictures. It traces the stages of a seeker’s journey: searching for the ox, glimpsing its footprints, catching it, taming it, riding it home, then forgetting the ox and the self, returning to the source. The final picture, the tenth, is “Entering the Marketplace with Helping Hands.” The awakened one doesn’t remain in solitude on the mountaintop. They walk back into the town — selling wine, buying vegetables, laughing with the crowd — but their presence is different. They serve without clinging, they earn their keep without exploitation, they meet people exactly where they are. This is why there is nothing inherently wrong with being in the marketplace and offering a service. The question is not whether you charge, but how you show up: with fairness, justice, and integrity. In that spirit, livelihood and service are not opposites; they are two hands of the same body.
Looking back, my own journey has moved through its own stages: the initial intoxication of technique, the grounding of professional coaching, a clear‑eyed view of the helping ecosystem, the deepening of Zen practice, and now the freedom of a livelihood rooted in trust. Seen through the Ox‑Herding lens, these stages are not linear but a spiral. Each time I return to the marketplace, I do so with a little more humility, a little more clarity, and a little less need to be the hero.
In the end, perhaps the most enduring lesson is this: helping is not about saving the world. It is about meeting one person, in one moment, with presence and humility — and letting that be enough.
And sometimes, the person you meet in need of help is yourself. The one you’re called to serve is the one in the mirror. That work is beyond price — pro bono publico becomes pro bono self. And if we can make a fair living while doing so — like the avocado tree in the Zendo garden, quietly offering its fruit, the birds , the monkeys and that giant Malabar squirrel that visit without asking, or even the Bhim Zendog basking in the sun without bothering them— then we are simply walking the path of the tenth picture: in the marketplace, with helping hands.
