In a village near the river Yamuna, in the days when Krishna still walked among cowherds, there lived an old potter named Kumbhaka. From dawn till dusk his wheel spun, and from the spinning grey clay came bowls and pots and little lamps for the whole village.

Kumbhaka was not a famous man. He did not fight in wars or sit in palaces. He only made pots. But there was something about him that people noticed: he was never frightened, never grasping, never sour, even when a whole tray of pots cracked in the kiln.

A young traveller once stopped to watch him work and could not understand it. "Old father," he said, "you work harder than anyone I have seen, yet you carry none of the worry. How?"

Kumbhaka kept his foot moving on the wheel. "Long ago," he said, "I worried over every pot. Will it sell? Will it break? Will they praise me or laugh? My hands shook, and the clay felt it. Then one evening I heard the flute of the cowherd boy from across the fields, and a thought came to me clear as water: every pot I make, I will make for Him."

He lifted a finished bowl and turned it in the light. "So now, when I begin a pot, in my heart I say, 'This is Yours, Krishna.' When it is done, I set it down and say, 'This too is Yours.' Whether it sells or breaks is no longer my burden to carry. I only have to make it as well as I can and hand it over. My hands are busy all day, but my heart is light as a lamp flame."

The traveller watched the next bowl rise from the spinning clay, smooth and sure.

"I am not a wise man," Kumbhaka said. "I cannot explain the great truths. But I have found one small thing that is true: do your work fully, give it to God with your whole heart, and keep thinking of Him while your hands move. Then even a potter's wheel becomes a kind of prayer."