WHEN NUMBERS ARRIVED, GIVING DIED
- Madhukar Dama
- 3 days ago
- 6 min read
How the human heart shrank the day it learned to count
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INTRODUCTION: THE AGE OF UNMEASURED GIVING
There was a time when people gave.
Without calculating.
Without asking: what’s in it for me?
Before grades, salaries, budgets, or evaluations — giving was instinctive.
You helped someone carry water because they were tired.
You shared a roti because you saw hunger.
You bent to touch someone’s feet not because they were “ranked above,”
but because your body felt respect.
You didn’t need to count.
You just needed to care.
But then…
we learned numbers.
And everything changed.
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PART 1: BEFORE NUMBERS — THE AGE OF FREE GIVING
Long ago, in homes, villages, forests, and fields — people gave because life was shared.
A grandmother in Andhra made a pot of pulusu not just for her house but for two neighbours.
A potter in Gujarat gifted one extra diya to the poor child who smiled too wide.
A shepherd in Ladakh offered his yak milk to strangers passing through snow, no invoice needed.
A tribal family in Chhattisgarh handed roasted roots to schoolchildren, never asking their names.
Children fed street dogs from their own plates.
Why?
Because they hadn’t yet learned division.
Not in the mathematical sense — but in the emotional sense.
They hadn’t yet calculated:
What do I get?
Is this worth it?
Am I giving more than I receive?
Does this person deserve my help?
Giving was human.
Numbers weren’t needed to validate it.
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PART 2: WHEN NUMBERS ENTERED LIFE — AND SHRUNK THE HEART
Then came schools, paychecks, marks, points, rewards, evaluations, budgets, and cost-benefit analysis.
And slowly…
A child who once freely helped classmates started saying,
“Will you share your notes if I help you?”
A worker who once stayed back to finish extra work began asking,
“Will I be paid overtime?”
A teenager who used to sing for joy started saying,
“How much will I earn if I perform?”
A homemaker who cooked festival sweets for neighbors began to ask,
“Why should I make for them if they don’t send anything to us?”
Even temple donations became receipts.
Even birthday gifts became transactions.
Even friendships became “give and take.”
Everything became a calculation.
Not from greed — but from habit.
Because we were trained:
"Your worth = Your score + Your salary + Your savings + Your followers."
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PART 3: THE DISEASE OF EVALUATION
Once you start measuring life, you cannot stop.
A teacher rates children.
A manager rates performance.
A parent rates obedience.
A friend rates replies.
A husband rates effort.
A devotee rates God.
Even children start rating their parents.
We don’t relate anymore.
We rate.
And what happens when everything is rated?
Fear. Competition. Insecurity. Isolation. Bitterness. Burnout. Jealousy. Emptiness.
Because the human heart was not built to be audited.
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PART 4: HOW THE BODY REMEMBERS PRE-NUMBER LIVING
You were born without numbers.
You didn’t measure your first smile.
You didn’t count how many hugs you gave.
You didn’t say, “I won’t crawl unless you give me a toy.”
You touched, gave, cried, slept, laughed — freely.
Even now, when you help someone spontaneously,
when you hug without agenda,
when you give your food without asking,
you feel light. Free. Alive.
That’s your original self.
But the mind interrupts:
“Is this sustainable?”
“Is this fair?”
“What if they don’t appreciate it?”
“What if they give less than I do?”
And once again, you shrink.
And the moment passes.
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PART 5: THE CULTURE OF MICRO-GIVING — AND HOW TO ESCAPE IT
Today, people don’t stop giving.
But they give like accountants.
50 rupees for charity. 5 selfies to prove it.
One post about gratitude. 300 likes expected.
One dish for potluck. Make sure it’s Instagrammable.
One phone call to parents. But don’t miss a meeting.
This is not giving.
This is contractual generosity.
We’re not stingy — we’re enslaved.
By numbers.
By outcome.
By fear of being taken advantage of.
But ironically, we are already taken advantage of — by the system that made us this way.
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PART 6: RETURNING TO PRE-NUMBER WISDOM — HOW TO START
You don’t need to abandon the world.
But you can start tiny acts of unmeasured giving.
Give without recording it.
Help without expecting a return.
Share food without checking if they thanked you.
Compliment someone even if you don’t get one back.
Teach something to a child even if they won’t use it.
Water a plant that’s not yours.
Cook a traditional recipe and send it to someone sick.
Ask a tired friend, “Can I do something for you today?”
Every time you do this, you return to the world before numbers.
And you feel a kind of health no medicine can offer:
The health of uncalculated love.
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CONCLUSION: WHEN MATH CAME, THE MYSTERY LEFT
The moment we started measuring,
we stopped trusting.
The moment we started scoring,
we stopped sharing.
The moment we turned generosity into accounting,
we lost the ability to just be human.
But it's still in you.
The child who gave the biggest piece of roti to the guest.
The grandmother who wrapped extra food in banana leaf.
The boy who shared his rain-soaked umbrella without asking.
You don’t need to return to the past.
You just need to return to that place inside you
before the world taught you to count.
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HEALING DIALOGUE
“WHEN DID I START CHARGING FOR EVERYTHING?”
A wealthy consultant visits Madhukar the Hermit, unable to feel joy despite a generous lifestyle.
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NIKHIL (43, Bengaluru, consultant):
I donate regularly.
I help people.
I send money to NGOs, pay my maid more than market rate, tip generously.
But still… I feel hollow.
Dry.
Used.
Why?
MADHUKAR:
Because you are not giving.
You are paying.
NIKHIL:
But isn't that the same?
MADHUKAR:
No.
Paying is a transaction.
Giving is an offering.
When was the last time you gave something — your time, your food, your listening —
without attaching a worth to it?
Without checking if they deserved it?
NIKHIL:
I don't know.
Maybe college days?
I remember sharing tea and vadas with a stranger who missed his train.
No name, no thank you, just a moment.
That felt… warm.
MADHUKAR:
Because the heart was open.
Before it was trained to measure.
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NIKHIL:
But today, everyone takes advantage.
I help, they expect more.
I do favors, they forget.
The world is selfish.
MADHUKAR:
The world is a mirror.
When you start expecting acknowledgement, the purity of giving is lost.
You don’t feel used because others take.
You feel used because your giving became a performance.
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NIKHIL (softly):
I think I forgot how to give freely.
Everything is optimized now.
Time, energy, relationships.
Even with my own son, I ask:
“What will you do in return?”
MADHUKAR:
That’s when love dies — when it needs an invoice.
You loved freely as a child.
You shared crayons, chased pigeons, held hands, gave hugs, sang loudly.
You didn’t wait for applause.
Now your heart is behind a spreadsheet.
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NIKHIL:
But how do I return?
I’ve lived like this for 20 years.
Planning. Calculating. Giving only when it’s “worth it.”
MADHUKAR:
You don’t need to undo your life.
You just need to start one act a day that is uncounted.
Make tea for your driver.
Share your lunch with a guard.
Sit beside your son without checking the time.
Offer water to a stranger, not because they’ll bless you, but because they’re thirsty.
Cook something for a lonely neighbor and walk away before they can say thanks.
Give. Leave. Forget. Repeat.
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NIKHIL (tears forming):
I miss that version of me.
The one who didn’t need to win.
Just needed to connect.
MADHUKAR:
He’s not gone.
He’s waiting beneath your calculations.
Waiting for the day you forget your salary, your title, your smartness —
And remember your soil.
The one that gave mangoes without counting.
The one that gave shade without asking.
The one that gave life without seeking return.
Be like that soil.
It never asks,
“Was it worth it?”
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CHARLES BUKOWSKI-STYLE POEM
“YOUR CALCULATOR ATE YOUR HEART”
you used to give.
just give.
like a cracked wall giving coolness in May.
like a dog’s tongue giving love after a kick.
like a streetlamp giving light to people it doesn’t know.
and then
someone handed you a calculator
and called it wisdom.
they said:
“stop being foolish.
measure your worth.
track your time.
price your pain.”
so you learned
to label your day in rupees,
your love in bullet points,
your meals in macros,
your jokes in claps,
your kindness in tax deductions.
you started watching
how much others give
before you offer your hand.
you stopped asking:
“do you need help?”
and started asking:
“do i have bandwidth?”
you became
a human billing system
with a nervous smile
and a hollow chest.
and one day
you saw a beggar
smile at a child
and the child gave him
his half-eaten biscuit.
no data.
no donation link.
no applause.
just two beings
without spreadsheets
tasting life
together.
and you cried.
not for them.
but for the fool you became.
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