He had no name, at least none that mattered.

Not tied to any institution, not waving the flag of any spiritual school —
just a man, walking slowly, gently, as if his feet whispered something sacred to the earth.

He had no belongings, yet lacked nothing.
He didn’t beg. He didn’t preach.
Whatever came, he accepted.
Whatever didn’t — he let it pass without resistance.

People often ask,
“Where do such monks come from?”
But how do you trace the origin of the wind?
How do you ask the sky, Where do you live?

Some humans become that — sky-like.
Unheld. Unbound. Still utterly present.

One evening, I saw him by the Ganga,
standing like a thought forgotten by time.

He didn’t need to meditate — he was meditation.
He didn’t speak of God — he was silence.

Maybe renunciation isn’t about giving up things.

Maybe it’s about giving up the habit of grasping.

He had nothing to prove.
And somehow, that made him infinite.

And maybe, that’s what spirituality really is —

Not a robe.
Not a title.
Not a lineage.
Just this stillness.
Just this moment.
Just this quiet, fearless presence.

— The Inner Notebook