Lord Kubera Blesses Me, So I May Bless the World

The other morning, I had an unusual visitor.

He did not arrive in a chauffeur-driven car, though he could certainly afford one. He did not come with accountants, auditors, investment advisers, or bankers. There was no ringing of bells, no shower of gold coins.

He simply appeared in my study, seated comfortably, examining the pile of unpaid bills, pending proposals, half-written manuscripts, and unopened envelopes on my table.

“Who are you, Sir?” I asked.

He smiled.

“You should know me,” he said. “I am Kubera.”

I immediately straightened my back. One does not slouch before the Treasurer of the Gods.

“Lord Kubera,” I said, “what brings you here?”

“I have come to bless you,” he replied.

And with that, he disappeared.

The blessing, however, had an unintended consequence.

By evening, word had spread that Lord Kubera had visited me. I do not know who leaked the news. Perhaps Narada, who has always been the original social media influencer.

The first call came from the Finance Minister.

“My dear Dr Modak,” she said with unusual warmth, “I believe you have recently come into divine liquidity.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

“No, no, please do not be modest. We are only looking for a small blessing. Nothing much. Just enough to bridge the fiscal deficit, support infrastructure, reduce public debt, fund climate adaptation (?), and announce one bold scheme before the next election.”

Before I could respond, the Finance Secretary called. Then the Additional Secretary. By midnight, my phone had more missed calls than from relatives on my birthday.

The next morning, I received a call from Washington.

“Prasad,” said a confident voice, “I hear some Kubera has blessed you. Tremendous. Very big blessing. Probably the biggest blessing. We should talk.”

“Who is this?” I asked, though I had already guessed.

“Trump.”

There are moments in life when one is not sure whether to say Namaste, Good Morning, or God save the world.

He continued, “I do not need money, of course. America has plenty. But if Kubera wants to invest in something beautiful, maybe a golden climate fund, with my name on it, we can make blessings great again.” Life is unpredictable and full of contrasts I thought.

I told him that Lord Kubera had not given me gold.

There was a pause.

“Then what did he give you?”

“Responsibility,” I said.

There was a longer pause.

“That does not sound liquid,” he replied.

Soon after, the international NGOs discovered me.

Their emails were more sophisticated. They did not ask for money directly. They asked whether I would consider supporting a transformative, inclusive, gender-sensitive, climate-resilient, biodiversity-positive, community-led, youth-powered, multi-stakeholder platform for catalytic systems change.

In the budget annexure, the systems change required twelve million dollars.

One NGO requested unrestricted core support. Another requested flexible programme support. A third requested urgent bridge support. A fourth requested support to prepare a concept note that would help them seek support.

But the strangest part was this: those who actually needed money most did not contact me.

The farmer facing a failed crop did not call. The student unable to pay fees did not write. The widow waiting outside a hospital billing counter did not know that Kubera had visited me. The teacher in a village school did not send a proposal in PDF. The community trying to repair its drinking water system did not ask for catalytic capital.

Perhaps they had not heard the news.

Or perhaps they had heard such news too many times before.

They could not believe that a blessing would ever travel in their direction.

This troubled me more than the calls from Ministers, Presidents, and international NGOs. The powerful chase blessings because they assume they are entitled to them. The truly needy often stay silent because experience has taught them that blessings usually stop before reaching them.

I looked discreetly at my bank account on the phone. Nothing had changed.

Kubera reappeared.

“You are checking the wrong place,” he said.

I closed the phone.

“Forgive me, Lord,” I said. “But naturally, when you say you have come to bless me, one assumes some improvement in liquidity.”

Kubera laughed.

“That is precisely the problem with humans. The moment wealth is mentioned, you look at balances. You do not look at purpose.”

I remained silent. When gods begin a sentence like that, it is safer not to interrupt.

“You have spent your life advising others on sustainability, responsibility, impact, and long-term value,” he continued. “You have told companies that capital must serve society. You have told governments that public money must create public good. You have told students that knowledge is meaningful only when shared. Yet when I say I will bless you, you still check your account.”

“That was only a reflex,” I said weakly.

“Most human mistakes are first justified as reflexes,” he replied.

He then asked me a disturbing question.

“If I gave you wealth, what would you do with it?”

I began confidently.

“I would strengthen EMC, support young professionals, create learning resources, help institutions, publish knowledge, support causes, and perhaps create a foundation corpus.”

Kubera nodded.

“And after that?”

“After that?” I asked.

“Yes. After your list of noble intentions is exhausted, what would you do?”

This was uncomfortable. Every person has two lists. One is the list we recite before gods, guests, and grant committees. The other is the private list, where the items are less suitable for public disclosure.

“Well,” I said, “perhaps I would travel a little more comfortably.”

“That is not a sin.”

“Perhaps I would buy some books.”

“That is almost a virtue.”

“Perhaps I would repair the house.”

“That is overdue.”

“Perhaps I would keep some money aside for my children.”

“That is natural.”

“Perhaps,” I said after some hesitation, “I would like to feel secure.”

Kubera leaned forward.

“Now we are getting somewhere.”

He explained that wealth has three shadows: fear, vanity, and control. Fear makes us accumulate beyond need. Vanity makes us display beyond dignity. Control makes us believe that because we have given, others must behave as we expect.

“Many people say they want to bless the world,” Kubera said. “But first they want the world to acknowledge that they are the blessing.”

That sentence stayed with me.

I thought of philanthropy that arrives with plaques larger than the purpose. I thought of donations that demand photographs. I thought of corporate social responsibility reports where beneficiaries appear like supporting actors in the donor’s story. I thought of institutions where giving becomes a form of ownership.

Kubera was not against wealth. How could he be? After all, he was Kubera. But he was against blocked wealth, anxious wealth, boastful wealth, and stagnant wealth.

“Wealth,” he said, “is like water. If it flows, it nourishes. If it stagnates, it smells. If it floods, it destroys. If it is hoarded, someone downstream goes thirsty.”

As an environmental professional, I appreciated the metaphor. Gods know how to speak in sectoral language when required.

“But Lord,” I said, “the world’s problems are so large. Climate change, inequality, polluted rivers, collapsing biodiversity, waste, migration, unemployment, loneliness. What can one person’s wealth do?”

Kubera smiled.

“You are still thinking like a consultant. You want scale before sincerity.”

This hurt because it was true.

“Do not underestimate small, well-directed acts,” he said. “A scholarship at the right time can change a life. A book given to the right student can change a mind. A patient conversation can change a decision. A seed grant can create an institution. A modest honorarium can preserve dignity.”

I asked him whether this meant I should give away everything.

“No,” he said firmly. “That is another human mistake. Recklessness is not generosity. Poverty does not become noble merely because it is self-inflicted. First earn with integrity. Spend with moderation. Save with prudence. Invest with wisdom. Give with humility.”

This was perhaps the most practical divine advice I had received in years.

He then placed before me an invisible ledger.

“This,” he said, “is your real balance sheet.”

I could not see numbers. I saw names: teachers who had shaped me, colleagues who had stood by me, clients who had trusted me, students who had challenged me, friends who had encouraged me, critics who had sharpened me, family members who had tolerated my absences, and strangers whose kindness I had forgotten to repay.

“This is the wealth you already have,” Kubera said. “You did not create it alone. Why then do you think you own it alone?”

I had no answer.

Kubera rose to leave.

“So, Lord,” I asked, “will you bless me?”

“I already have.”

“With wealth?”

“With the responsibility to use it well.”

“That sounds heavier than wealth,” I said.

“It is,” he replied. “That is why most people prefer money.”

Before disappearing, he gave me one final instruction.

“Do not ask me to make you rich so that you may bless the world. Begin blessing the world with what you already have. Then we shall see whether you can be trusted with more.”

After he left, I opened my bank account again. The balance was exactly the same.

But something had changed.

The money looked less like possession and more like possibility. The books on my shelf looked less like acquisitions and more like future gifts. The notes on my table looked less like unfinished work and more like unpaid obligations. Even my experience, with all its mistakes and detours, looked like wealth I had no right to hoard.

Perhaps Lord Kubera does not bless us by adding zeros to our bank accounts.

Perhaps he blesses us by removing the zero from our imagination.

A blessing is not something we receive and keep.

It is something that must pass through us.

Only then may we say, without embarrassment, that Lord Kubera blessed us so we may bless the world.