Murli ji passed all three tests by choosing honesty over polish. He didn't try to sound like someone he's not. He simply told his truth.
And to those critics who dismissed his early attempt, let me remind Murli ji of something. When John Keats published Endymion in 1818, critics tore it apart so viciously that some said it contributed to his early death. Yet his next work, including "Ode to a Nightingale," proved his genius. Our own Munshi Premchand, Allahabad's gift to Hindi literature, faced similar rejection before Godan and Nirmala established him as a master. Early rejection often marks authentic work—it means you're saying something new in a voice that hasn't been heard before.
What I love about Murli ji's philosophy is its stubborn integrity. In a world obsessed with trends, he talks about knowing your soul. In an age of quick fixes, he speaks of forty-year journeys. When everyone chases external validation, he reminds us that real success is measured by how you feel when you wake up, whether your work drains or energises you, and whether your life aligns with your deepest values.
I've seen too many talented people kill their passions for the sake of practicality. Writers who became accountants. Musicians who became engineers. Teachers who became managers. All because they believed the lie that passion is something you indulge in after "real work" is done, if time permits