Every few years, a new “baba” rises in India. The word means a holy man or spiritual teacher, and some of these men become enormously famous, claiming the power to read minds, heal the sick, and solve any problem through divine grace. Crowds of hundreds of thousands gather at their public gatherings, television channels broadcast their sessions, and ordinary people travel hundreds of kilometres hoping the baba will look into their heart, name their troubles without being told, and make those troubles disappear. The names change, but the hope behind the crowd stays the same: someone else will solve my problem for me. And this is not only an Indian story. Faith healers, miracle preachers, and self-proclaimed prophets draw crowds in every part of the world, because the longing behind them is universal.

That longing is understandable. When a son cannot find work, a daughter falls ill, a debt keeps growing, or a family is falling apart, life can feel unbearable. A man on a stage who seems to understand your pain without a word from you feels like a lifeline. But we must ask ourselves an honest question: why do we need magic at all? We turn to miracles when a problem feels too big for us. Magic promises a shortcut, with no effort, no uncertainty, and no long struggle, only faith, a donation, and a blessing. Yet the truth is both uncomfortable and liberating. No one can live your life for you, and no one can solve your problems for you. Only you can. A holy man cannot study for your exam, repay your loan, treat your diabetes, or repair a broken relationship. At best, he can give you hope. At worst, he can take your time, your money, and your trust, and leave the problem exactly where it was.

The evidence for this is all around us. For decades, rationalist organisations in India have offered cash rewards to anyone who can demonstrate mind-reading or other supernatural powers under fair and controlled conditions. Self-styled miracle workers have been publicly challenged many times, and no one has ever claimed the prize. If such powers were real, proving them would be the easiest thing in the world. Blind faith has also proved deadly. In July 2024, at a large religious gathering in Hathras, in the northern Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, more than 120 people, most of them women, were crushed to death in a stampede. Many had rushed forward to collect soil from where the preacher had walked, believing it would bring them blessings. They came seeking relief from their suffering and lost their lives instead. Sometimes the so-called saint is himself the problem. Asaram Bapu, Gurmeet Ram Rahim, and Rampal were three of India’s most powerful spiritual leaders, each commanding millions of devoted followers. All three were later convicted by Indian courts of serious crimes. Their followers were not foolish people. They were ordinary families who trusted that a holy man would protect them, and that trust was betrayed.

Now consider the opposite stories, the ones that never make it onto a stage. A struggling farmer in central India who has his soil tested and switches to a better-suited crop does more for his harvest than any lucky charm ever could. A girl from a poor village who studies at night under a streetlight because her home has no electricity, and then passes her exams, owes her success to her own effort. A patient who follows a doctor’s treatment instead of waiting for a miracle cure is the one who recovers. These are the real miracles, in India and everywhere else, and they happen every day without any stage or spectacle.

This message is not foreign to Indian culture or hostile to it. It comes from the very heart of India’s own spiritual tradition. The Bhagavad Gita, one of Hinduism’s most revered scriptures, takes the form of a conversation on a battlefield between the god Krishna and the warrior Arjuna, who is paralysed by doubt. Krishna’s central teaching is that our duty lies in our own actions. He does not fight the battle for Arjuna; he tells Arjuna to rise and fight it himself. Kabir, a fifteenth-century Indian poet and mystic, put it even more beautifully. He wrote that the musk deer carries its precious fragrance within its own body, yet roams the forest searching for its source. That is exactly what we do when we search for a holy man to save us, because the strength we are looking for is already inside us. Swami Vivekananda, the nineteenth-century Indian monk who introduced Hindu philosophy to the West, taught again and again that the greatest sin is to believe yourself weak. Every time we believe someone else holds the key to our life, we are telling ourselves exactly that.

None of this is an argument against God, prayer, or religious devotion. Prayer can calm a troubled mind, and a temple, church, mosque, or gathering of believers can offer comfort and a sense of belonging. There is nothing wrong with that. The danger begins when faith turns into dependence: when we stop acting because we are waiting for a miracle, when we give away money we cannot afford, when we avoid the doctor, or when we hand over our own judgment to a man on a stage. Real faith should make us stronger, not more helpless.

So the next time life knocks you down, ask yourself what one step you can take today. Talk to a doctor, speak to a counsellor, learn a new skill, or ask your family and friends for help. Make a plan, however small, and follow it through. The problem is yours, and that is exactly why the power to solve it is also yours. No holy man can give you that power, because you already have it. The real miracle is not on a stage. It is in your own two hands.