The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari | Page 2

of all, to my wonderful parents, Shiv and Shashi Sharma,
who have guided and helped me from day one; to my loyal and wise brother
Sanjay Sharma, M.D., and his good wife, Susan; to my daughter, Bianca, for
your presence; to my son, Colby, for your spirit, and to my wife and best
friend, Alka. You are all the light that shows me the way.
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Life is no brief candle for me. It is a sort of splendid
torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want
to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it
on to future generations.
George Bernard Shaw
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CONTENTS
1 THE WAKE-UP CALL 1
2 THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 8
3 THE MIRACULOUS TRANSFORMATION OF JULIAN MANTLE .. 12
4 A MAGICAL MEETING WITH THE SAGES OF SIVANA 24
5 A SPIRITUAL STUDENT OF THE SAGES 27
6 THE WISDOM OF PERSONAL CHANGE 32
7 A MOST EXTRAORDINARY GARDEN 41
8 KINDLING YOUR INNER FIRE 72
9 THE ANCIENT ART OF SELF-LEADERSHIP 93
10 THE POWER OF DISCIPLINE 144
11 YOUR MOST PRECIOUS COMMODITY 159
12 THE ULTIMATE PURPOSE OF LIFE 173
13 THE TIMELESS SECRET OF LIFELONG HAPPINESS 181
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The Monk
Who Sold His
Ferrari
CHAPTER ONE
The Wake-Up Call
He collapsed right in the middle of a packed courtroom. He was
one of this country's most distinguished trial lawyers. He was also
a man who was as well known for the three-thousand-dollar Italian
suits which draped his well-fed frame as for his remarkable string
of legal victories. I simply stood there, paralyzed by the shock of
what I had just witnessed. The great Julian Mantle had been
reduced to a victim and was now squirming on the ground like a
helpless infant, shaking and shivering and sweating like a maniac.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion from that point on.
"My God, Julian's in trouble!" his paralegal screamed, emotionally
offering us a blinding glimpse of the obvious. The judge looked
panic-stricken and quickly muttered something into the private
phone she had had installed in the event of an emergency. As for
me, I could only stand there, dazed and confused. Please don't die,
you old fool. Its too early for you to check out. You don't deserve
to die like this.
The bailiff, who earlier had looked as if he had been embalmed
in his standing position, leapt into action and started to perform
CPR on the fallen legal hero. The paralegal was at his side, her
long blond curls dangling over Julian's ruby-red face, offering him
soft words of comfort, words which he obviously could not hear.
I had known Julian for seventeen years. We had first met when
I was a young law student hired by one of his partners as a summer
research intern. Back then, he'd had it all. He was a brilliant, handsome
and fearless trial attorney with dreams of greatness. Julian
was the firm's young star, the rain-maker in waiting. I can still
remember walking by his regal corner office while I was working
late one night and stealing a glimpse of the framed quotation
perched on his massive oak desk. It was by Winston Churchill and
it spoke volumes about the man that Julian was:
Sure I am that this day we are masters of our fate, that the
task which has been set before us is not above our strength;
that its pangs and toils are not beyond my endurance. As
long as we have faith in our own cause and an unconquerable
will to win, victory will not be denied us.
Julian also walked his talk. He was tough, hard-driving and
willing to work eighteen-hour days for the success he believed was
his destiny. I heard through the grapevine that his grandfather
had been a prominent senator and his father a highly respected
judge of the Federal Court. It was obvious that he came from
money and that there were enormous expectations weighing on his
Armani-clad shoulders. I'll admit one thing though: he ran his own
race. He was determined to do things his own way � and he loved
to put on a show.
Julian's outrageous courtroom theatrics regularly made the front
pages of the newspapers. The rich and famous flocked to his side
whenever they needed a superb legal tactician with an aggressive
edge. His extra-curricular activities were probably as well known.
Late-night visits to the city's finest restaurants with sexy young fashion
models, or reckless drinking escapades with the rowdy band of
brokers he called his "demolition team" became the stuff of legend at
the firm.
I still can't figure out why he picked me to work with him on
that sensational murder case he was to argue that first summer.
Though I had graduated from Harvard Law School, his alma
mater, I certainly wasn't the brightest intern at the firm, and my
family pedigree reflected no blue blood. My father spent his whole
life as a security guard with a local bank after a stint in the
Marines. My mother grew up unceremoniously in the Bronx.
Yet he did pick me over all the others who had been quietly
lobbying him for the privilege of being his legal gofer on what
became known as "the Mother of All Murder Trials": he said he
liked my