Decisions are the singular mechanism by which we bifurcate our lives into parallel realities. The moment a choice is made, the timeline splits. You step forward to inhabit the reality you have chosen, while the unmapped alternative - the life you could have led, the path you almost walked - slowly fades into the shadows. For some decisions, you only have to live with the consequences for a few fleeting minutes. For others, the consequences stretch out to encompass the entirety of your life, and perhaps even the lives of those who come after you.

Every morning, when I rush out the door for my commute to Manhattan, I face a micro-bifurcation. I have to decide whether to transit from Jersey City to New York via the WTC line or the 33rd St line.

I am invariably in a hurry, moving with that specific, anxious momentum unique to the morning rush. My only goal is to reach the office as fast as humanly possible. Yet, there are countless instances where I end up standing on the platform of my chosen line, only to find myself lustily watching the trains of the other line quickly whizz by.

As they pass, a familiar, irrational monologue loops in my head: Why didn’t I choose the other line?

Even though I know the stakes are incredibly low, it frustrates me. The actual consequence is minimal—a ten, perhaps a maximum of fifteen-minute difference in reaching the office. But the chafing and irritation I feel are entirely real. It is not rational to feel abrasive over a fifteen-minute delay, but the human mind rarely consults rationality when it feels it has made the “wrong” choice.

This commute is the ultimate low-stakes gamble. But it serves as a daily rehearsal for the macro-decisions of life that we all have to choose, namely:

1. Where do you live?

2. With whom do you live?

3. What do you dedicate your life’s work towards?

Consciously choosing a path for these questions could dictate the lived experience for the vast majority of your time on this earth. The stakes are undeniably high, for the simple reason that you will have to live within the architecture of these choices for a very long period.

Rationally speaking, the time taken to answer a question should be proportional to the stakes involved. You should take significantly more time to decide on a question that carries decades of consequences. We all intuitively feel this. We all desire a thought-through, value-maximizing framework in which, if we have clarity on our values, we can extract the maximum possible yield from our choices.

But that assumes we act rationally. And the truth is, we rarely do.

We navigate the world through a tangled web of social assumptions, raw emotions, and complex psychology. The rational decision-making framework remains a theoretical ideal, one that falls short the moment it is tested in the messy reality of human life.

Because we fear the weight of high-stakes consequences, we often succumb to analysis paralysis. Society is quick to label this delay as procrastination, but I disagree. When you are staring down a choice that will alter the trajectory of your life, pausing to understand the best-case and worst-case scenarios isn’t paralysis; rather, it is vital information-gathering.

Interestingly, I find the real reason we feel paralyzed about a high-stakes decision actually stems from a more fundamental misunderstanding of how decisions actually work.

We tend to treat the decision-making process as a singular, finite “event.” We view it as a guillotine blade dropping—a moment in time where a choice is locked in. The terrifying assumption embedded in this framework is that once the decision is made, the person loses all agency. They become a mere spectator, forced to either passively enjoy or helplessly suffer the consequences of that choice as it unfurls.

If the morning train commute is the floor of decision-making stakes, history provides us with the absolute ceiling.

Consider the 1947 Partition of British India into India and Pakistan. It is hard to overstate the staggering gravity of this event. Practically overnight, millions of people had to choose between two countries. The stakes were absolute. This was not a decision about a fifteen-minute delay; this was a decision that dictated geographical roots, cultural identity, physical safety, and the geopolitical reality of entire bloodlines for generations to come.

It is easy to look at an event of that magnitude and view the crossing of the newly drawn border as the final, absolute “decision event.” But even in a scenario with the highest stakes imaginable, viewing the choice as the end of personal agency is incomplete.

The initial decision was to choose the country whose ideals most closely matched your own. But the agency did not dissolve the moment a family set foot on new soil. The true work—the heavier, more profound expression of agency—was what came next. Once established in either nation, the people had to continually work to improve their own lives and those of their chosen country.

This reveals the liberating truth about how we navigate the world: your agency does not end when a decision is made. You have agency before the choice, and crucially, you have agency after it.

• If I am standing on the subway platform and see two trains whizz past on the other track, I am not helpless. I can check my phone, verify which line is moving faster, and undo my previous choice by simply walking over to the other platform.

• If you decide to sign a lease in a specific neighborhood and realize two months later that it was a mistake, you are not a prisoner to that choice. You have the ongoing agency to either break the lease and find a new apartment, leveraging the new information about what didn’t work, or to bear the remaining months while actively plotting a better choice for next year.

No matter how high the stakes feel, a decision never diminishes your continuous ability to iteratively improve your reality. Looked at through this lens, decision-making is not a single event, but a two-part process:

1. First, you exercise your choice from the given list of options.

2. Second, you actively participate in life afterwards to make that decision right.

This, to me, is the only complete way to approach a fork in the road. When making a decision, you must reach a state of conviction where you can comfortably choose one option over the others. But more importantly, you must feel deeply convinced from within that you possess the resilience to participate in the life that follows.

If a decision is made without conviction in your ability to deal with the consequences of both the best-case and worst-case scenarios of that option, then it means true conviction has not been reached. In that scenario, taking more time through the decision-making process to gather more information is perfectly alright.

A life of agency flows like a river. It is a continuous current of choices made, followed by actions taken to support and refine them. A life where personal agency is blocked is like a stagnating pond, suffering from the unwanted overgrowth of mushrooming thought-clouds.

When you accept that your agency doesn’t end the moment a choice is finalized, the pressure of the “perfect” decision begins to lift.

You are no longer trying to predict a flawless future.

You are simply choosing a path, trusting that whatever reality unfolds, you retain the power to shape it.

I have long meant to summarize the personal philosophy that I work with. It comes directly from the ancient Indian philosophy, and I felt I could do it justice only by articulating it in Hindi.

I would truly appreciate engaging with your comments if this article speaks to you.

भारतीय दर्शन में काम (इच्छा, वासना, आकर्षण) को कभी पाप नहीं कहा गया। यह मनुष्य के चार पुरुषार्थों में से एक है। धर्म, अर्थ, काम और मोक्ष - ये जीवन के चार स्तंभ हैं, और ये परस्पर विरोधी नहीं, बल्कि पूरक हैं। इसलिए काम का निषेध नहीं है; उसका नियमन है। समस्या तब जन्म लेती है जब काम धर्म से ऊपर उठकर मनुष्य का स्वामी बन जाता है। जब इच्छा साधन होती है, वह जीवन को आगे बढ़ाती है; जब वह स्वामी बनती है, वह जीवन को नीचे खींच ले जाती है।

हिंदू परंपरा ने भोग का अंधा उत्सव नहीं मनाया। उसने मनुष्य को संयम, स्वामित्व और आत्म-नियंत्रण का मार्ग दिखाया। वह जानती थी कि मनुष्य का मन स्वभावतः चंचल है और इंद्रियाँ स्वभावतः आकर्षण की ओर दौड़ती हैं। इसलिए उसने कहा - इंद्रियों को मारो मत, उन्हें साधो; इच्छा को दबाओ मत, उसे दिशा दो; काम को त्यागो मत, उसे धर्म के अधीन रखो। काम के धर्म के अधीन होना ही संतुलन है। जब काम धर्म पर शासन करने लगता है, पतन आरंभ होता है।

यह पतन अचानक नहीं आता। वह किसी एक बड़े अपराध से नहीं शुरू होता। वह धीरे-धीरे, दृष्टि से शुरू होकर मन तक फैलता है। मनुष्य जिस पर बार-बार दृष्टि डालता है, वही भीतर संरचना बनाता है।

इसलिए कहा गया: दृष्टि की रक्षा करो, क्योंकि पतन का द्वार आँखों से खुलता है।

ब्रह्मचर्य: देह का नहीं, चेतना का अनुशासन

हमारे समय में ब्रह्मचर्य को अक्सर गलत समझा जाता है। इसे केवल देहिक संयम या यौन-निषेध के रूप में देखा जाता है। परंतु शास्त्रों में इसका अर्थ कहीं अधिक व्यापक है - ब्रह्म में स्थित होकर चलना, अर्थात् जीवन को उच्चतम सत्य की दिशा में मोड़ देना। यह केवल शरीर का अनुशासन नहीं है; यह चेतना का अनुशासन है।

ब्रह्मचर्य शक्ति है। पर यह शक्ति दमन से नहीं आती; यह ऊर्जा के संरक्षण से आती है। जब मनुष्य अपनी जीवन-शक्ति को व्यर्थ के भोगों में बिखेरता नहीं, तब वही ऊर्जा ओज बनती है। ओज से तेज उत्पन्न होता है, और तेज से ज्ञान। यह केवल काव्यात्मक क्रम नहीं है; यह अनुभव का क्रम है। केंद्रित ऊर्जा स्पष्ट दृष्टि देती है। बिखरी हुई ऊर्जा भ्रम पैदा करती है।

इसलिए ब्रह्मचर्य “क्या नहीं करना है” की सूची नहीं है। यह “मैं किस दिशा में जी रहा हूँ” का प्रश्न है। यह जीवन को एक उच्चतर ध्येय की ओर मोड़ने की कला है।

अनुशासन: वासना का प्रतिरोध नहीं, उसका रूपांतरण

वासना का मूल स्रोत मन है। मन का मूल स्रोत इंद्रियाँ हैं। और इंद्रियों का मूल स्रोत आदतें हैं। यदि आदतें असावधान हैं, तो मन अस्थिर होगा। यदि मन अस्थिर है, तो इच्छा दिशाहीन होगी। इसलिए परंपरा ने आदतों पर काम किया—जीवन को अनुशासन में ढालने की बात की।

ब्रह्ममुहूर्त में उठना केवल धार्मिक आग्रह नहीं है; यह दिन की दिशा निर्धारित करने का उपाय है। रात्रि का आलस्य वासना को पोषित करता है, क्योंकि असावधान मन अधिक प्रतिक्रियाशील होता है। प्रातः का अनुशासन चेतना को जाग्रत करता है।

नित्य जप या स्मरण मन को केंद्र देता है। यह अवचेतन की दिशा तय करता है।

तप और परिश्रम शरीर को स्थिर बनाते हैं। एक आलसी शरीर प्रायः स्थिर मन नहीं दे सकता।

ये सभी अभ्यास वासना को दबाते नहीं; वे उसे ऊर्जा में रूपांतरित करते हैं। मनुष्य का मन कभी रिक्त नहीं रहता। या तो वह वासना से भरा होगा, या साधना से। प्रश्न यह नहीं कि ऊर्जा होगी या नहीं; प्रश्न यह है कि वह किस रूप में प्रकट होगी।

स्त्री: शक्ति का रूप, वस्तु नहीं

भारतीय परंपरा में स्त्री को शक्ति कहा गया—दुर्गा, लक्ष्मी, सरस्वती। यह केवल प्रतीकात्मक सम्मान नहीं है; यह दृष्टि का प्रशिक्षण है। जब किसी मनुष्य को केवल भोग की वस्तु के रूप में देखा जाता है, तो देखने वाले की चेतना संकुचित होती है। जब उसी मनुष्य को शक्ति, चेतना और गरिमा के साथ देखा जाता है, तो दृष्टि विस्तृत होती है।

यह विषय केवल स्त्री या पुरुष तक सीमित नहीं है। वस्तुकरण किसी भी दिशा में चेतना को नीचे ले जाता है। सम्मान सामाजिक औपचारिकता नहीं है; यह आध्यात्मिक परिपक्वता का संकेत है।

जीवन का उद्देश्य: सुख नहीं, सत्य

मनुष्य सुख भोगने के लिए नहीं जन्मा। सुख आवश्यक हो सकता है, पर वह पर्याप्त नहीं है। सुख क्षणिक है—आता है, जाता है, और पीछे एक रिक्तता छोड़ सकता है। सत्य स्थायी है। सत्य मनुष्य को भीतर से पूर्ण करता है।

वासना पर विजय नैतिक प्रदर्शन नहीं है; यह तेज की वृद्धि है। संयम सामाजिक नियम का पालन मात्र नहीं है; यह आत्म-राजत्व है। जब मनुष्य अपनी इंद्रियों पर शासन करता है, तब वह स्वयं का राजा बन जाता है। जब इंद्रियाँ मनुष्य पर शासन करती हैं, तब वह स्वयं का दास बन जाता है।

हम सबके भीतर एक अग्नि है: इच्छा की अग्नि, सृजन की अग्नि, जीवन की अग्नि। यदि वह अनियंत्रित हो जाए, तो वह जलाती है। यदि वह संरक्षित और निर्देशित हो, तो वही प्रकाश देती है।

अग्नि को सुरक्षित रखना: यही साधना है!

यही पुरुषार्थ है!

और यही मोक्ष का मार्ग है!

1. My parents find this idea of mine traumatic, for in their view, I should have found the girl of my dreams yesterday, had kids today, and be working toward retirement starting tomorrow.

2. Unfortunately, my friends have fallen into this as well and are hurriedly going through the motions of marriage and parenthood — constantly juggling the demands of it while maintaining their work pressures. I can see the responsibility cracking them up.

3. Similarly, the workplace is always moving at a rapid pace, striving to meet aspirational sales goals to make the product a success. There is more to achieve to meet a never-ending performance loop.

4. And the news-cycle says the world is in perpetual self-destruct mode, combined with pollution, climate crisis, countries warring against each other, and that we are going to bomb ourselves into destruction tomorrow.

These are a few of the pressures I feel, and I am pretty sure I am not alone.

I have taken a stand: I will not be in a hurry in my life. And whatever needs to be done through me will be done through this state of mind.

When I say “without hurry,” don’t mistake me: I am not saying to be lethargic at all. It simply means I am not multitasking endlessly. It means I have no interest in taking on more responsibilities or things for the sake of it. And I question why you don’t think this way.

I don’t agree with the idea that if one does not hurry, one will miss the bus. There is no bus to miss. This is a deep belief I have learned over the years of studying Vedanta. The fact that the source of joy is within us is the greatest evidence of this.

My argument is that one should care more about the quality of life than the quantity of achievements pursued under social pressure.

The moment you start questioning why you are fundamentally pursuing something, you will realize, one way or another, that the source of that pursuit often comes from social pressure. It brings a sense of belonging among friends, and that belonging provides reassurance that one is doing what one is “supposed” to do at a certain age. But this is where one must fight the battle, find the deeper center of motivation, and truly rely on that ground.

For me, I don’t want to be in a hurry in life. And anything where I feel I must hurry to get something done generally does not find my heart or mind open to it.

What this means practically is building strong muscles to feel comfortable being uncomfortable in social situations where others are going through their own motions. This is where one needs a strong spiritual practice in private life and must bank upon it when there seems to be no strength left to hold one’s own fort as the world rushes past.

This indecent hurry that one seems to be pulled into is reason enough to lose all the qualitative vitality of life. Why? If basic needs are unmet, of course, one ought to work to address them. But beyond that, I find these hurried movements to be wasteful leakages of one’s greatness.

I would rather believe in having one goal in life and living completely in surrender to that goal. Nothing else. Nothing more. If this mindset eventually leads to worldly success or worldly failure, that is immaterial.

Can you live a life like this? Do you think you can amass willpower to this extent and live day in and day out for a single dream? If you can, then I say you have lived a life of qualitative greatness, and you do not need anyone to declare whether it is great or not.

A life surrendered to a single-pointed goal is, in my mind, the recipe for greatness. A life of managing hundreds of goals may suit the temperament of the society we live in, but to me, it feels like a qualitative failure.

The world would go on hurrying. It always had. Trains would be caught and missed. Deadlines would neatly stack in inboxes. Invitations would arrive with expectations attached. People would measure their lives in milestones, mortgage plans, and birthday candles.

But I have discovered something the world could not take from me. There was no bell ringing somewhere that I had failed to hear. No invisible conductor waving the last train away from the platform.

The sky would not collapse if I walked slowly. And so I would walk. Not defiantly. Not lazily. But deliberately.

If there was magic in life, it was not in arriving early, but rather in arriving whole. And that, I decided, was reason enough to take my time.

This place has to be sacred. The word “sacred” here is not decorative. Sacred is that which has the capacity to absorb sorrow without reacting to it.

Life accumulates. It collects both the good and the bad: success, insult, ambition, fear, and hope. Without a place where these accumulated emotions can find a “sink,” it becomes very difficult to carry too much for too long.

The Electrical Logic of Devotion

In an electrical circuit board, we have a “ground.” This is where excess electricity is discharged so the system can continue to function smoothly. One requires a similar sacred altar in life, where multifarious excess energies (both positive and negative) can find resolution. Without grounding, the circuit burns. With grounding, it flows.

In Chapter 7 of the Bhagavad Gita, Sri Krishna speaks of four kinds of people who turn toward the Divine:

• The distressed (ārtaḥ)

• The seeker of gain (arthārthī)

• The inquirer (jijñāsuḥ)

• The wise (jñānī)

What is remarkable is that Krishna does not judge any of them. He calls them all noble.

1. The Distressed: The Divine as Refuge

The first kind is the distressed. This is the person whose mind hangs heavy with tiredness and mental fatigue. Something in life has overwhelmed them. It may be a failure, a loss, or simply the weight of responsibility. They come to the altar not out of philosophy, but out of exhaustion.

For them, God is a refuge. An altar where sorrow dissolves without retaliation. This is devotion born of necessity. It is the first great benefit of cultivating spirituality in daily life, for it provides a “sink” during times of crisis. There is a simple phrase that captures this well: there are no atheists in foxholes. This need is universal.

2. The Seeker of Gain: The Divine as Partner

The second kind is the seeker of gain, the arthārthī. This person is not broken; they are alive with aspiration! They want to build, explore the unknown, amass wealth, and carve out a respectable position in society.

The seeker of gain may pray before making a bold decision. They might fold their hands before an interview, a launch, or a journey. They understand that life is complex and that pushing ahead with effort alone might not be enough. Timing, circumstance, and unseen alignments all play their part.

Krishna includes them among the virtuous. This is profound. It means that ambition, when placed consciously at the altar, becomes a form of devotion. The seeker acknowledges they are not the sole author of their destiny. That humility, subtle as it may be, is sacred.

3. The Inquirer: The Divine as Truth

The third kind is the inquirer, the jijñāsuḥ. This is a different restlessness altogether. The inquirer is not primarily concerned with wealth or relief. Rather, they are unsettled by existence itself. They ask how it is that we are here for a brief moment and then gone. They wonder about the “Consciousness” by which they know the world.

This person is driven by an intellectual and existential seriousness. They have begun to see that ordinary explanations do not suffice in explaining the mystery of life and death.

They clearly see that worldly success can never be final, for it doesn’t answer death. Similarly, achievement does not address the fear of mortality that every human being must face.

And thus they turn toward the sacred, and their turning is not to negotiate outcomes but to understand the structure of reality itself. The hope is that through this effort, they can attain fearlessness in this life that is otherwise haunted by hundreds of fears, primarily the fear of death and some sort of total ruin.

Inquiry is a sacred restlessness. It is the stage where we stop trying to fix the world and start trying to understand Reality as it is.

4. The Wise: The Divine as Self

As long as one is an inquirer, there is still a subtle distance. There is the “I” who asks and the “Truth” that is sought. The circuit is active, humming with the tension of unanswered questions.

Eventually, this inquiry reaches a breaking point. You realize you cannot think your way into ultimate reality because the mind itself is part of the machinery you are examining. You cannot use a flashlight to find the battery that powers it.

Through the guidance of sages, alongside steady spiritual practice and self-study of the Upanishads, enriched by meticulous, self-effacing work, an inquirer matures into the jñānī.

If the distressed person uses the Divine as a refuge and the seeker uses the Divine as a partner, the jñānī has moved beyond the logic of use altogether. They have realized, in a direct and unmistakable way, that the Divine is not a distant helper. They see that the consciousness by which one knows the world is itself the sacred ground.

In previous stages, the “ground” is a place where you can pour out excess energy. But for the jñānī, the entire metaphor shifts. They no longer look for a place to ground themselves. They have realized that they are the ground.

When you recognize that your true nature is identical to the Sacred Ground, there is no longer a build-up of excess tension. Success and failure, heat and cold, or praise and blame are no longer external shocks to the system. They are simply movements within the Self.

This is why Sri Krishna declares that the jñānī is His very Self (ātmā eva). The search for a sacred space ends when the jñānī becomes a living expression of that sacredness.

The Spectrum of the Heart

It is tempting to look at these four categories as a ladder where one must stop being the “distressed” to become the “wise.” But in the architecture of the Gita, these are not just types of people; they are the various seasons of the human heart.

On a Monday morning, we may be the arthārthī, full of ambition and drive, seeking the Divine’s partnership in our latest venture. By Tuesday evening, under the weight of a personal setback, we might revert to the ārtaḥ, simply needing a place to pour out our exhaustion!

The beauty of Krishna’s perspective lies in the absence of hierarchy in His affection. By calling even the distressed and the ambitious “noble,” he validates the entirety of our human experience.

He suggests that the act of “turning toward”—of recognizing that we need a ground larger than our own ego—is the only thing that truly matters.

We do not need to wait until we are fully realized jñānīs to benefit from the Sacred Ground. The ground is already beneath us. Whether we use it as a refuge, a partner, or a field of inquiry, we are already participating in that divine circuit.

The goal of a reflective life is not to force ourselves into the final stage, but to become increasingly aware of the “sink” that is always available. Whether you come with a heavy heart or a restless mind, the altar is open. We simply have to stop trying to carry the weight alone.

It says reality is something you already are. Not metaphorically. Not philosophically. Literally.

“I” is not the person who wakes up, brushes his teeth, and goes to work. “I” is the light in which that person appears.

That light does not reflect reality. It creates it.

This is not mystical poetry. It is an observable fact.

Every night, you close your eyes and enter a world with no raw material. No sun. No matter. No physics textbook. Yet entire cities appear. Conversations happen. Fear grips you. Love moves you. You run. You fail. You wake up sweating.

The dream world is not borrowed from anywhere. It rises fully formed from you.

Which means the power to generate a lived reality already exists within Consciousness itself. The only difference between dream and waking is scale and continuity. The principle is the same.

That alone should unsettle you. But Advaita goes further.

It asks you to examine the one experience everyone trusts without question: deep sleep.

In deep sleep, there is no identity. No ambition. No memory. No story. Yet on waking, we say, without hesitation, “I slept happily.”

No object produced that happiness. No achievement earned it. No relationship supplied it. Bliss was present without content.

Which means bliss is not an experience you get. It is what remains when experience disappears. This is the most radical psychological claim ever made! Happiness is not downstream of success. It is upstream of existence.

That is why waking up feels hard. Individuality has returned. Desire has returned. Time has returned. The weight of becoming presses back down. Sleep feels like relief because it is the temporary dissolution of lack.

From this simple analysis, two unshakeable truths emerge.

1. First: Consciousness has the capacity to create worlds.

2. Second: Consciousness does not depend on those worlds for joy.

This combination is explosive.

1. If bliss is intrinsic, you no longer need life to cooperate in order to be at peace.

2. If creation is inherent, you no longer need permission to act.

You have found the golden treasure!

• You can work without desperation.

• You can risk without fear.

• You can fail without collapse.

Because the empire of joy was never external. It was never up for negotiation.

This is where most spiritual paths retreat. They discover bliss and turn away from the world. They mistake freedom for withdrawal.

Advaita does not. And this is where Vivekananda stands alone.

• He did not ask people to abandon life. He asked them to stop being afraid of it.

• He took the deepest metaphysical truth — you are already free — and welded it to action.

Work. Build. Serve. Dare.

Not to earn salvation. But because you are not bound.

He understood something rare:

• Only a person who knows joy is indestructible can work without anxiety.

• Only a person who knows the Self is whole can act without clinging to outcomes.

This is not optimism. It is structural fearlessness.

You are not told to imagine a better world. You are told to recognize that the world already appears in you.

You are not promised happiness later. You are shown that happiness has never left.

That is why Advaita is not escapism. It is the most grounded worldview possible. You sleep every night. You dream every night. The evidence is experiential, not theological.

And once you truly see this, something changes.

1. Ambition becomes cleaner.

2. Effort becomes lighter.

3. Failure loses its teeth.

You still act. You still care. You still build.

But!

1. You no longer bleed internally for outcomes.

2. You stop trying to extract joy from the world.

3. You start expressing what is already complete.

That is the quiet revolution Advaita offers.

1. Not transcendence of life. But intimacy with it.

2. Not a denial of work. But work without fear.

And that is why Vivekananda mattered. He did not merely explain reality.

He lived as if it were already secure.

That is pure Advaita.

We are all in search of a human ideal, whether we acknowledge it or not.

Why, you may ask?

For we constantly need a bright torchlight that illuminates our future. In the absence of that, the questions and doubts around meaninglessness and guilt for wasting one’s precious life would otherwise gnaw us from the inside out.

I wonder if someone doesn’t feel this way, for if that is really the case, then I would argue that — that person has not even started to contemplate their own morality, the limited time and bandwidth we get to experience this life, the preciousness of the time that is otherwise dripping away moment by moment towards an impending doom for this bodily existence.

The starting point of inquiry, whether in art, science, or religion, is, in one way or another, this fear of the limitedness of our existence and the impending doom.

What an ideal does is, it blasts an effulgent light of clarity through this fear. If you are someone whose personal disposition is that of an artist, then this fear of death should drive you to become a Leonardo Da Vinci. If you have a personal disposition of a musician, then this fear of death should force a Beethoven(or an A.R.Rahman - you get to choose!) out of you. If you have a personal taste of scientific rigor, then this fear of death should stimulate an Einstein(or Nikola Tesla!) out of you.

The point I am trying to home in on is the same. A human ideal is a strong antidote to fear.

What is going on behind the scenes? Why does a human ideal uproot us out of our deep, dark, negative selves?

I believe it is so because when we contrast the lives of these people against the default ticking of time, the slow approach of the impending doom that our life is approaching, that contrast is so overpowering that the ideal analogy generates a tremendous uplift, without which life would seem impossible to live. And hence, ideals are deeply attractive to the human mind.

You might accuse me of painting a rather gloomy picture to explain to you the need for ideals in our lives. But let us also take a positive outlook on it.

A human ideal performs a precise function. It plants a possibility in the mind. It expands what feels attainable. Life, which under daily routine can begin to feel like mere repetition, suddenly acquires an optimistic charge. Without such an ideal, the mind slowly contracts.

What happens if you don’t consciously choose your ideal? Based on what I’ve outlined above, it might seem that without an ideal, we’d become suicidal, with the fear of death eating away at us. But interestingly, while my earlier point might suggest that, in reality, when our lives aren’t grounded in an ideal, they often get taken over by its distant and less noble cousin - peer pressure.

Peer pressure is essentially how our aspirational energy gets trapped, without our choice of direction. We see people around us buying homes, getting married, getting promoted, and an unexamined urgency builds up to follow the same trajectory. Peer pressure is a distant cousin of following a personal ideal. It borrows the energy of aspiration but strips it of direction. It pushes without meaning.

Following an ideal and submitting to peer pressure may look similar on the surface, but they are opposites in effect.

• In following an ideal, one taps into individual capability and personal ambition.

• Under peer pressure, one is forced into actions that have not been consciously chosen.

The result is a vague but persistent burden.

If someone struggles with peer pressure, choosing an ideal can free up enormous cognitive bandwidth. The same aspirational energy that was previously scattered in comparison and anxiety becomes focused. Without a consciously chosen ideal, that energy often leaks into imitation.

With one, it gains direction. Effort feels cleaner. Life feels less noisy. Without such direction, one does not merely feel stressed but also vaguely misplaced.

Why Childhood Ideals Endure

Among all ideals we accept, the strongest ones are often those encountered in childhood.

Childhood impressions last because nothing questioned them. What entered the mind early entered without resistance.

This is why childhood memories endure. The world itself has not changed dramatically, but our way of grasping has gone through revolutionary change in the meantime.

As adults, everything that reaches us passes through layers of judgment built slowly through experience. This filtering is necessary. It allows us to function responsibly in society. But as children, we were free of this burden. An ideal could captivate us completely, without negotiation. I would also like to contend that such ideals endure not solely because of their nostalgic essence, but also because they do not require the constant convincing and justification to which our adult brains are accustomed to.

Interstices

This is the story of one such ideal that entered my mind early and has quietly shaped my life since then.

I still remember being in my eleventh grade, reading an interview with Umberto Eco in our English coursebook. He was introduced as a university professor who had also achieved durable recognition as a writer of fiction, especially through The Name of the Rose. The chapter explored how someone embedded in academic life managed to write layered, demanding novels that were yet widely read.

The interviewer was puzzled by this contradiction. How does someone with the obligations of teaching, administration, and scholarly work manage to produce serious fiction?

Eco answered calmly:

“Maybe I give the impression of doing many things. But in the end, I am convinced I am always doing the same thing.”

The question interested me then. It interests me more now, because it describes the condition most of us live in.

We build a day job over years of effort. It pays our bills, provides social standing, and creates stability. I am fully in favor of maintaining such a structure and taking it seriously, unless it begins to erode one’s mental peace. In the best case, one even comes to enjoy the work itself.

But whether one enjoys it or not, another question remains. What if one wants to express oneself creatively, purely out of inner disposition, without reference to money, status, or security?

This kind of expression at this point in my life feels like a necessity to fight the repetitiveness that the modern daily job brings out of its nature. This is the same need, I contend, that Umberto Eco must have felt, which put him on the novel-writing path, knowing fully well that he had a satisfactory, or rather a prestigious, job in hand.

So the question the interviewer asked Eco, which is relevant to us, is this:

For all of us who have a daily job to maintain but also want to express ourselves creatively, how can we do so continuously and sustainably?

This is the precise question that was answered for me in that interview seventeen years back. Even though I was a kid back then, I knew this mental model would come in handy in the future, and thus I have carried the answer with me ever since.

I have applied it repeatedly, often without consciously noticing it. The results are pretty solid:

• For this blog that you are reading wouldn’t exist had I not applied that answer to my life.

• Similarly, my engagement with meditation, philosophy, and spiritual inquiry has been sustained because of it.

• I have learned and refined skills across very different domains using the same understanding, be it from storytelling to skiing, from sailing to squash, because of that answer.

So! What mental model am I talking about?

When the interviewer asked how he could reconcile the contradictory demands of his day job with what is necessary for writing serious fiction, Eco readily submitted his secret.

“And then I have a secret.”

“Did you know what will happen if you eliminate the empty spaces from the universe, eliminate the empty spaces in all the atoms? The universe will become as big as my fist. Similarly, we have a lot of empty spaces in our lives. I call them interstices.”

“Say you are coming over to my place. You are in an elevator, and while you are coming up, I am waiting for you. This is an interstice, an empty space. I work in empty spaces. While waiting for your elevator to come up from the first to the third floor, I have already written an article! (Laughs).”

He gave an example. Suppose you are coming to visit him. You are in an elevator, moving upward. He is waiting for you. That interval is an interstice.

Most people experience it as nothing. He did not. While the elevator moved from the first floor to the third, he said, he had already written an article!

What Using Empty Spaces Changed

I must have read that interview only once, but it has stayed with me for seventeen years.

The reason is clear to me now. The person speaking had already reached a state I still aspire to. He had written work that others wanted to read without reducing its intellectual, psychological, or philosophical depth. He had done so while maintaining the structure of his professional life. This is precisely the goal that currently motivates me, and Eco serves as a human ideal for me, someone I want to learn from.

Because of him, I do not see my day job as an obstacle as of today. I see it as form. It gives shape to the day. Without form, effort disperses.

Because of him, my life has quietly organized itself around this idea of empty spaces, of interstices.

• An interstice is the walk from my apartment to the station in the morning. The door has closed behind me. The phone is still in my pocket. The day has not yet begun. One sentence forms there, usually incomplete but clear enough to return to later.

• Another interstice is the platform while waiting for the train. Nothing can be done to hurry it. Most people fill that time immediately with doom scrolling. By this time, I have come across an interesting insight into what could be the main theme of my next blog post.

• There is a third interstice between exiting the station and entering the office building. The mind is alert. The workday has not yet taken hold. A paragraph is revised there, without writing a word. By the time I sit down, the introduction and the article's theme are ready!

None of this feels deliberate while it is happening. It feels like waiting. It feels like moving through the day as usual. And yet, these insights accumulate. A piece of writing takes shape. A line of inquiry deepens. A skill stops feeling borrowed and begins to feel owned.

From the outside, it may look like discipline. From the inside, it feels like nothing extra was added. Only the empty spaces were used.

I notice them now. I return to them. I leave something small there. I make a note of it in my ever-expanding Google Doc of ideas and concepts that interest and intrigue me. And then I continue on.

Outside of writing, and more generally, the interstices present a philosophy and a technique for accommodating the seemingly contrasting demands that a modern man faces every day. And because of this, the next time someone says, I can’t find time to do something important, tell them the power of empty spaces, the power of interstices, and see how their face blooms with excitement, for they have found a fix for the ever-burdening disease of too-much-to-do-but-not-enough-time-whataboutry.

The realization came yesterday, while listening to an AI narration of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in a calm, aristocratic British voice (I know, right?). An hour passed without effort. I wasn’t multitasking. I wasn’t trying to extract lessons. I was simply transported. With that transport came a warmth that felt familiar, almost physical. Childhood returned as continuity.

That was when it struck me: whenever life had been discontinuous, fiction had stepped in to provide structure.

I grew up moving constantly. My dad’s job required frequent transfers, and by the time I reached undergrad, I had attended eight different schools. Each move meant starting over. New classrooms. New faces. New rules of belonging. Friendships were always temporary, however intense they felt in the moment. I learned early that external continuity was unreliable.

Fiction filled that gap.

Harry Potter was the first world that stayed put while everything else moved. I encountered it first through films, then through PC games, and eventually through the books themselves. What mattered most was the timing of seeing Harry grow up, as he was growing up just as I was. His fears matured as mine did. His world expanded just as mine kept resetting. I didn’t merely read those books. I inhabited them. They gave me a sense of narrative continuity when real life refused to. This is something many 90s kids can relate to, as Harry Potter became the shared narrative we all lived through.

I wasn’t alone in this. My elder brother and cousin sister were already deep into reading. They served as informal conduits of stories for me before I could access the books myself. At night, my brother would narrate entire sections of parts five and six. Those narrations were intimate, almost ritualistic. Listening to stories in the dark, letting imagination do the heavy lifting, trained something fundamental in me long before I knew what it was.

When the seventh book finally came out, the hunger for it was overwhelming. My brother managed to get a copy from a friend. He read it in two days, then handed it to me. I took weeks to savor it slowly. Around that time, an aunt who lived below our apartment asked me casually why one should read such a series at all. I remember freezing. I didn’t have an answer ready. It was the first time I realized that something central to my inner life might be completely invisible to others. That realization was dizzying.

Soon after ninth grade, I was introduced to Naruto. The seriousness of its writing surprised me. This wasn’t casual entertainment that people generally associate anime with. It was disciplined storytelling, moral struggle, loyalty, loss, and perseverance rendered with care. My brother would send CDs by post, and I would wait with anticipation for them. Those stories stayed with me through my late teens, quietly shaping my sense of effort and endurance.

The first year of my undergrad marked another shift. That was when I discovered Stieg Larsson’s three-part series, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. That was a revelation for me, not just because of the story, but because of how it completely seized my attention. I remember reading those books with almost bated breath.

I read them everywhere. While walking to class. While coming back from lectures. Sitting behind the classroom, the book was hidden just enough to escape notice. Walking through the dorm corridors. During vacations, whenever I could find a quiet corner to sit, think, and continue. Every space became a place to read. Time itself began to organize around the act of reading.

I was deeply drawn to Lisbeth Salander. The character stayed with me in a way few others had. There was something uncompromising about her presence and about the world she inhabited. The writing was sharp, precise, and relentless. It did not offer comfort or easy resolutions. It demanded attention and rewarded it with intensity.

What struck me most was the quality of the writing itself. It trusted the reader. It stayed with difficult material without diluting it. There was a seriousness to it that I had not encountered before, and it changed the way I related to fiction. Reading was no longer just a refuge. It became absorption. A state in which the outside world receded and something sharper, more demanding took its place.

By the time I finished the trilogy, something in me had shifted quietly. I found myself less interested in stories that were merely soothing. I wanted narratives that could hold complexity, darkness, and intelligence together without flinching.

By the second year of undergrad, fiction became immersive rather than episodic. A friend lent me his Kindle, and I downloaded all the volumes of Game of Thrones. I read obsessively. Day and night. The world was brutal, intricate, and morally ambiguous. It demanded attention. This was no longer a refuge in the sense of a place of shelter. It was a refuge through complexity. The real world was pressing in with questions about career, competence, and future. Fiction offered a place where I could engage with difficulty on my own terms.

Then something interesting happened. Fiction changed form.

In my later undergrad years and through grad school, I drifted away from novels almost entirely. Instead, I took refuge in research papers. Computer vision. Machine learning. Mathematical abstractions. To an outsider, this might look like a departure from imagination. To me, it felt like continuity. Papers were worlds. Models were characters. Assumptions were the laws of physics. Elegant solutions delivered the same quiet satisfaction that a well-resolved chapter once had.

After moving to New York in 2017, fresh out of grad school, that world collapsed too. Professional life began in earnest, and with it came a strange hollowness. The fictional universes I had relied on for years no longer seemed accessible. I remember feeling disturbed, as though something essential had gone missing.

That was when I encountered the world of Swami Vivekananda and Sri Ramakrishna, largely through the extempore lectures on Advaita Vedanta by Swami Sarvapriyananda at the Vedanta Society of New York. I did not approach this as a belief or conversion. I approached it the way I had always approached new worlds: with curiosity and seriousness. Vedanta unfolded like a living universe. Concepts replaced characters. Inquiry replaced plot. Thought itself became inhabitable.

Looking back, I see that each phase of my life demanded a different kind of fiction. Childhood needed shelter. Adolescence needed intensity. Early adulthood needed immersion. Intellectual years needed abstraction. Migration demanded a philosophical world spacious enough to hold uncertainty without panic.

This is why I no longer find the distinction between fiction and non-fiction particularly meaningful. Psychologically potent fiction does not oppose truth rather it prepares one to receive it.

The Mahabharata contains the Gita. Is it fiction or non-fiction?

The question itself dissolves on inspection. Fiction is the sweetness through which highly metaphorical knowledge systems can be passed down through generations without any dilution. It taps into the power of stories to completely rewire one’s internal experience of life. It makes truth livable and maybe even relishable.

In a world where reading has become fragmented and attention scarce, I find myself returning to listening. AI narrations. Audiobooks. Lectures. Voices that carry these fictional worlds into my daily movement. It still works. Perhaps it always will. It still has the power to suck in the poison that the daily life in its course inevitably generates.

When I honestly trace my life, I do not see these fictional-episodes as a series of escapes. Rather I see them as training grounds where each imagined world prepared me for a reality I had not yet reached. Each refuge quietly expanded my capacity to endure change.

And that, more than anything, makes me grateful.

What a fabulous life this is.

In the film F1, the camera finds a girl in the pit crew. She is unnamed, a soldier in the background, battling the wheel of a great machine. She was losing. You could see the panic rising in her like a fever. She fumbled the heavy gun. She dropped the steel nut. In the brutal game of racing, she was bleeding seconds, and seconds are the only currency that matters. She was hurrying, and the hurry was killing her.

Then Sonny Hayes stepped in. He did not shout. He looked at her with the eyes of a man who has seen the wall and lived. He spoke a sentence that sounded less like advice and more like an Old Tongue spell:

“Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast.”

It was a paradox. In a world of fire and speed, he asked for slowness. But as she listened, the trembling stopped. Her hands remembered their work. She moved with a strange, heavy grace. She stopped fighting the machine and began to dance with it. The clumsiness vanished, and suddenly, she was fast.

The Boy on the Stage

Watching her, I felt a ghost pass through me. I was six years old again.

I stood at the front of a first-grade classroom. The teacher had called my name for an “extempore,” a surprise trial by combat where a child must weave a story from thin air. I was flummoxed. I was petrified. The silence of the room felt heavy, like a wool blanket.

In my terror, I snatched at the only weapon I had: the story of the Rabbit and the Tortoise.

I told it badly. I spoke in a frenzy, the words tumbling over each other, tripping and falling. I was the Rabbit, terrified and arrogant, sprinting toward the end just to make the silence stop. I finished with the only sentence I could remember, the moral drilled into every child:

“Slow and steady wins the race.”

The class clapped. It was the customary applause, the polite lie we tell children to make them feel brave. But I knew the truth. I had preached the virtue of “Slow and Steady,” but I had run the race of the Rabbit. I knew the words, but I did not know the magic.

The Echo Across the River

It is said that stories, like swords, have lineages.

Years later, reading the nine heavy volumes of Vivekananda, I found the forge where this story was hammered out. I stumbled upon a lecture titled “India’s Gift to the World.”

As I read the transcript, I realized the geography of this wisdom was closer than I imagined. Vivekananda delivered this lecture in Brooklyn, just a stone’s throw from where I exist today.

I live in Jersey City and work in Midtown Manhattan. My life is a daily commute through the “City that Never Sleeps”, the global temple of the Rabbit. Midtown is a canyon of glass and steel built on Hurry, where everyone is running, frantic to beat the clock.

But just across the East River, in the quiet history of Brooklyn, Vivekananda pulled back the curtain:

“India has given to the world the fables of Aesop, which were copied by Aesop from an old Sanskrit book... yes, even the story of Cinderella and the Bean Stalks.”

The contrast struck me hard. I spend my days in the frantic rush of the city, fighting the urge to be erratic. Yet, the antidote to that chaos was spoken over a century ago, just across the water. The story I blurted out in First Grade was a fragment of the Panchatantra. It travelled from the banks of the Ganges to the boroughs of New York, waiting for me to finally hear it over the noise of the commute.

The Law of Motion

And this is where the two worlds collide.

The F1 mantra and the Ancient Moral are not two different ideas. They are the same equation written in different languages.

• The F1 Driver says: “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”

• The Sanskrit Sage says: “Slow and steady wins the race.”

They are both fighting the same enemy. And the enemy is not “slowness.” The enemy is Erraticity.

The Rabbit runs with fury, but he creates a jagged line. He sprints, he stops, he sleeps. The panicked mechanic moves with fury, but she creates jagged lines. She rushes, she drops, she resets. The commuter in Midtown rushes, but he burns out.

In the harsh mathematics of reality, inconsistency is the killer.

The Tortoise wins because he is the Unbroken Line. He never halts. He never resets. The ancient masters understood what the modern driver knows: Hurry creates holes in your momentum.

To be “smooth” is to fill those holes. It is to trade the manic burst of energy for the unbreakable power of rhythm.

We spend our lives trying to be fast. We rush our art, our work, our lives. We are Rabbits running in circles, exhausted by our own inconsistent bursts. But the secret of the old magic is simple.

Be the Tortoise. Be the smooth hand on the wheel gun.

Do not stop. Do not be jagged. Just flow. The speed will find you.

If a pillar were to believe that it alone was supporting the temple tower, it would imagine a burden that was never its own. It would tire itself unnecessarily, assuming responsibility for something that is in fact upheld by a far deeper and stronger support.

The exhaustion would not arise from the work itself, but from ignorance of the ground on which it stands.

Ramana used this image to point toward a fundamental error in human consciousness. Man imagines himself to be the doer. He believes that the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. He assumes authorship of the action, ownership of the results, and responsibility for outcomes that are ultimately not his to bear. This mistaken assumption is the true source of inner fatigue.

Real spirituality begins precisely here. It must result in transformation, and transformation is only possible when a truth is practical enough to be lived moment by moment.

At the center of the problem lies the egotistical sense of “I.” This is the “I” that claims ownership over action and says, “I act, I decide, I achieve.” This sense of doership belongs to a mind that has not yet found rest. It lives in fear, confusion, and effort because it is still searching for an anchor. Until such an anchor is found, life unfolds as a repeated cycle of striving followed by exhaustion.

What is required is not the abandonment of action, but the gradual renunciation of this false sense of agentship. This is the renunciation spoken of in the Bhagavad Gita. It is an inner renunciation, a relinquishing of ownership rather than a withdrawal from life. When this egoistical “I” discovers that it is not autonomous, that it is merely a reflection arising from a deeper Reality, something essential shifts.

At that point, one comes face-to-face with an intuition of the “Real I”. This “Real I” is spoken of as Atman, Brahman, the Self. The recognition of this Reality is called Brahmajnana, Self-realization, or enlightenment. The language varies, but the experience is singular. The individual no longer feels like an isolated agent struggling against the world. There arises a quiet certainty that one is an instrument through which a higher power operates.

Once this anchoring takes place, suffering loses its foundation. The struggles that arise from ignorance dissolve because the burden of doership is no longer assumed. Just as the pillar no longer tires itself once it knows it is supported by the earth, the individual ceases to exhaust themselves once they recognize the ground of their being.

There is another way through which this anchoring can be established, and it is equally profound. This is the path of daily devotion. Through rituals, prayer, repetition, and songs, the mind is slowly trained to relinquish its claim to independence. In devotion, one repeatedly affirms that one is not the master, but the child of God, the servant of God, or the friend of God.

This shift in language is not incidental. Bhakti works by patiently impressing this truth upon the mind. It does not shock the ego into surrender. It dissolves it through familiarity and love. Over days, months, and years, this steady remembrance achieves the same end as the path of knowledge. The difference lies only in temperament. The Jnana path can be swift and uncompromising. Bhakti unfolds gently, but with equal certainty.

In both cases, the result is the same. The egotistical “I” finds its resting place in the “Real I”, and with that, the inner turbulence comes to an end.

The ideal state that emerges from this understanding is one in which a person lives continuously with the sense of being an instrument of the Divine. Action still happens. Work continues. Decisions are made. But they arise from a different center. The joy of the realized person lies not in achievement, but in abidance in the Self. Action flows from attunement rather than anxiety.

When work arises from this inner alignment, it naturally expresses righteousness. There is no inner competition, no constant comparison, no restless ambition. What remains is a quiet contentment and a relaxed strength that does not depend on outcomes.

Different teachers have spoken of this truth using different languages. Sri Ramakrishna would say that the Divine Mother has become all cosmic principles and that She herself has become the world. Ramana Maharishi would state that Brahman alone is real and that the world is Brahman. These expressions appear different, but they resolve the same inner conflict. In both cases, the egoistical “I” finds its anchor, whether in the neuter Brahman or the feminine Divine Mother.

Living the Paradox Daily: Vivekananda’s Practical Resolution

Swami Vivekananda once expressed this entire understanding in a manner that was at once humorous, compassionate, and deeply practical. He suggested that when one is well and strong, one should know that one is backed by the Real I and live with intention, courage, and strength. And when one is unwell or weak, one should depend entirely on the Divine Mother.

This is not a contradiction but a mature application of spiritual insight to the uneven rhythms of daily life. Strengths and weaknesses are both inevitable. What matters is how one relates to them. When strength arises, it is an opportunity to act firmly from knowledge, without arrogance or fear. When weakness arises, it is an opportunity to surrender without resistance or self-condemnation.

This ability to move freely between standing in knowledge and resting in surrender is what makes spirituality livable. It allows one to remain rooted in Truth without becoming rigid, and devoted without becoming dependent. The paradox is not to be resolved intellectually, but to be inhabited consciously.

For a modern spiritual seeker, this offers a complete way of life. To know oneself as grounded in the Self when strength is available, and to lean wholly on the Divine when it is not, is to live without unnecessary strain. It is to function like the pillar that knows it is supported by the earth, performing its role fully while never imagining that the weight of the temple rests upon it.

If this image of the gopuram resonates, it is worth sitting with it quietly. To notice where, in daily life, you still assume the weight of what you were never meant to carry.

If this reflection opens something genuine, I would be glad to hear how it unfolds for you.

The rest of us—my dad, my brother, my grandad, and myself—are off living directed, solitary lives. Each of us is absorbed in some mission, some purpose, some private line of thought or ambition. We all love each other, of course, but my mom is the one who keeps the emotional current flowing between us. Without her, we would probably drift into our separate orbits, waving occasionally from a distance.

It’s almost comical when I think about it. The house often feels like four men on parallel journeys who occasionally cross paths in the kitchen, and one woman quietly keeping the constellation from spinning apart.

The Relational Energy

There is a kind of intelligence that operates beneath words - a sensitivity to mood, timing, and the small shifts in people’s energy. My mother has that in abundance. It isn’t something you can learn from a book or acquire through logic; it’s more ecological, like a tree sensing changes in the wind.

She can tell when someone is withdrawn before they have realized it themselves. She knows how to bring warmth without intrusion, and when to let someone sit in silence without feeling abandoned. It is an emotional craftsmanship, the skill of maintaining coherence in the field between people.

What she does looks effortless, but it is a form of active intelligence. She is the one tuning the frequencies so the rest of us can go off chasing our own signals.

The Solitary Energy

The men in my family, by contrast, are happiest in solitude. Not loneliness, but solitude. We each come alive in our own private rhythm: my father in his work, my brother in his craft, my grandfather in his memories, and me in my thoughts. There is a clarity that comes from being alone, a kind of inner architecture that needs silence to form.

That solitude, I think, is its own kind of love. It is a way of making sense of the world so we can bring something back to the people who matter. But it is also a different mode of being - linear, goal-oriented, often blind to the emotional texture around us.

While my mom’s energy pulls inward, weaving connections, ours pushes outward, carving paths. Centripetal and centrifugal. Relation and direction.

The Family as a Living Balance

Every functioning family is a small ecology of these two forces: connection and direction, relation and solitude. One gives warmth and coherence; the other gives structure and movement.

Without my mother’s emotional intelligence, our lives would be efficient but fragmented, a collection of ambitions sharing a roof. Without our directional drive, her relational field might never stretch outward into new possibilities.

When these two energies balance, something beautiful happens. Relation gives meaning to purpose, and purpose gives form to relation. The home becomes a living dialogue between stillness and motion.

The Archetype Beneath It

Philosophers and mystics have tried to capture this polarity for centuries. In Indian thought, it is Shakti and Shiva—energy and stillness, creation and awareness. In Taoism, it is yin and yang, the receptive and the active.

Everywhere you look, life is built on this conversation between the one who holds and the one who moves.

Maybe that is why my family works. My mother is the field of Shakti, dynamic, relational, harmonizing. The men, in our quieter way, carry the energy of Shiva, directed and purposeful. Neither is superior; both are necessary. Together they form a whole.

The Quiet Heroism of Holding

I used to think families survived because people did their duties—paid bills, showed up, stayed loyal. Now I think they survive because someone chooses to hold, to maintain the invisible threads that make duty worth doing.

That person, often a mother, sometimes a father, occasionally a friend, is the reason the whole structure does not collapse into parallel lives. They are the quiet hero of coherence.

And maybe that is what real love looks like. Not grand gestures or endless harmony, but the ongoing labor of someone who keeps the emotional center warm enough for everyone to keep returning to.

Every family needs someone who holds the invisible thread. And everyone who lives a solitary, directed life needs to remember that their strength still draws meaning from that hidden center of relation.

When it works, the home is the meeting point of two sacred energies: the one who holds, and the ones who go.

It’s somewhat crazy to think that something people consider trivial was so hard for me. Looking back, I see it happened because of two things: the ecosystem I grew up in, and of course, my own stubborn share of blame. I can’t just throw everything on society, even though all of us love doing that. 🙂

An added twist is that I’m the first person in my family to have an “active” driving license. That story begins with my grandad, who, while working outside India in the 1970s, had such a severe accident that it left shockwaves across the family. He recovered after six months of care, but with the limited communication of that era, my family back home endured months of silence and fear. That trauma turned into a ripple effect: driving became synonymous with danger.

Even my dad wasn’t spared. As a civil engineer, he once got a motorbike from his firm. After a minor fall, he gave it up completely. The irony? He’s led more than 20 national highway projects across India, but doesn’t drive a single vehicle himself.

And then there was me. Because of his job, we always had an SUV and a driver. For much of my childhood, I enjoyed what was essentially a personal chauffeur. I can still name each driver on my fingers because I grew up knowing them so well. Naturally, I never felt the pinch of learning to drive myself.

But that easy arrangement disappeared when I moved to the US for my studies. Suddenly, I was on my own. Living on the East Coast, in Manhattan and Jersey City, I still managed without driving because public transport was so good. Long-haul buses and trains got me far, and for the occasional trip, generous friends would take the wheel.

So that’s the backdrop, the reasons I never felt urgency. But that doesn’t mean I never tried. Over the years, I made several attempts, each with its own twists.

The Attempts

2015: Kota, India.
I signed up for formal driving lessons during my last year of undergrad. I remember driving around the industrial zone for hours with my instructor, but for reasons I can’t recall, it never culminated in a road test.

2017: Allahabad, India.
On a vacation home during my spring break from grad school in the US, I practiced with a local driver who knew my dad. I even got a learner’s license by passing the knowledge test, but the actual road test was scheduled a month later, and my vacation was shorter than that. So the effort fizzled.

2017–2019: New York and New Jersey, USA.
Determined to fix it, I tried again in NYC. But visa documentation issues had me running in circles between multiple New Jersey DMVs, and I gave up, exhausted. By late 2019, I registered at a Queens driving school, cleared the knowledge test, and took several lessons. Then Covid hit, the learning permit expired, and the cycle ended again.

2023: Jersey City.
I gave it another go, this time in the New Jersey’s DMV. My first knowledge test attempt failed by a single question. Frustrated, I ditched the apps and read the NJ driver’s manual cover-to-cover. That worked, I passed and got my learner’s permit. I took classes, built some confidence, and went for the road test. I failed. Twice. Once for doing a K-turn in five moves instead of three, and another time for not using hand-over-hand steering. To make matters worse, the same examiner failed me both times.

It was disheartening, but I kept pushing. Friends like Shubham, Hardik, Abhijit, and Jayant helped me practice, and for the first time I felt real confidence behind the wheel. Driving with Jayant especially was a breakthrough. His patience allowed me to relax and become aware of my own mistakes. That was when I realized I wasn’t just following rules anymore. I was actually aware of what I was doing, and that’s the moment when practice turns into real skill.

Still, scheduling the actual test was another hurdle. That’s when I wrote a small Python script to alert me if cancelled DMV slots opened up, saving me from endless refreshing. It worked, and I finally got a slot.

This time, I asked for Blanco, the Guatemalan instructor I trusted most from my driving school for the road test. On the way to the DMV, he handed me the wheel, and that simple gesture gave me the same ease I had found driving with Jayant. When the test began, everything clicked. I moved through the maneuvers like clockwork, and when the examiner smiled and said, “It’s a pass,” Blanco hugged me and said, “Congratulations.”

Reflections

Looking back, I realize my biggest flaw was waiting until necessity forced me into action. That habit has cost me opportunities beyond driving. For a long time, I treated effort as binary, either 0 or 1. But life is really a gradient. You can dial it up slowly, patiently, and let part-effort mix with the entropy of life and that way you can actually surf the wave somewhat easily.

I also learned that friends and teachers play different roles. Friends give you space to grow; teachers give you sharp corrections. Both matter, but in different stages of learning.

Most importantly, I saw how every skill moves from rule-following to self-awareness. That’s when you know you’ve crossed the bridge from fumbling to mastery.

And so, after years of attempts, detours, bureaucratic loops, countless instructors, and the help of friends, I finally got my driver’s license. Maybe this is me growing up after all!

A Personal Story

Placement season in my undergrad at IIT BHU was a strange kind of ritual. It was my fourth year, and the whole campus carried a nervous energy that was hard to escape. Everyone knew, with the exception of those in computer science, that their careers were going to land in software regardless of what they had studied. Mechanical, civil, electrical—it did not matter. The funnel always ended in code. And the weight of this reality was heavy, because if you missed the placement season you were told you were staring into a future full of uncertainty.

This was 2015 and at the time I had already half-convinced myself that I wanted to pursue research in the United States. That meant I was not fully consumed by the placement race, but I could still feel the tension radiating through the halls. What made the whole season unnecessarily difficult was the way information was handled. Our Training and Placement Office functioned like a slow and outdated bureaucracy. When a company came to campus, the announcement was a single sheet of paper pinned on the notice board inside their office. That was it. Whether you learned about it or not depended entirely on luck and timing. Many of us found out about opportunities only after they had passed, which meant you could miss the chance to even sit for the first round of tests.

It was frustrating, because the problem was not a lack of jobs or a lack of talent. It was that crucial information was stuck on a wall. Then one of my close friends built something that seemed simple at the time but felt extraordinary. He wrote a Python application, deployed it on AWS, and connected it with Pushbullet notifications. Placement coordinators could now feed announcements into the app directly, and every student with an Android phone received an instant alert whenever a new company arrived.

The effect was immediate. What once felt like a lottery suddenly felt manageable. The Training and Placement Office had not changed its nature, but the entire experience of students had changed because information began flowing freely.

That was the first time I truly understood the power of technology. It was not about inventing jobs or companies. It was about distributing information in a way that mattered.

A Modern Parallel

Today in 2025, which is exactly ten years since I graduated, I found myself in Jersey City, facing a remarkably similar problem. This time the setting was the DMV. I needed a road test slot, and the website showed nothing available for months. But if you kept refreshing, sometimes a cancellation would appear for a much closer date. The trouble was that unless you happened to refresh at exactly the right time, those slots were gone before you could click. It was a system that demanded endless refreshing, with missed opportunities being the norm.

The déjà vu was unmistakable. This was the same problem I had seen back at IIT BHU. So, I turned to the same type of solution. With the easy guidance of ChatGPT I wrote a Python script and set it up to run on GitHub Actions. Every five minutes the script checked for open slots and notified me instantly if one appeared. Suddenly, I did not need to sit there refreshing endlessly. The frustration dissolved into a steady flow of information.

It was such a small hack, but it reminded me of that earlier moment when I first realized what distribution can do. The difference between before and after was not more information but better distribution of it. The pain of missed chances disappeared once the flow became automatic.

The Distribution Lens

This is when a larger realization began to crystallize. What we often call “techification” is, at its heart, about solving distribution problems. The internet provides a kind of highway for information exchange between those who supply and those who demand. Without it, most solutions look like narrow sidewalks, small and unreliable. With it, we suddenly have scale, speed, and fairness.

We like to think of technology as sleek apps, smart algorithms, or eye-catching designs. But beneath all of that is something more fundamental. Technology works when it allows information, goods, or opportunities to flow without friction. It is not about the “coolness” of the tech itself. It is about the way distribution changes the lived reality of people on either side of the exchange.

Breakthroughs and Limits

Once you see technology through the lens of distribution, many examples fall into place. Amazon became what it is by solving the distribution of goods at scale. Uber connected idle cars with riders in a way that created entirely new patterns of movement in cities. YouTube and Instagram made it possible for a creator in a small town to find an audience across the world. Even dating apps are nothing more, and nothing less, than distribution systems that connect profiles into matches.

On the other hand, failures also look clearer in this light. WeWork, for example, helped make coworking spaces more discoverable. But it could not change the underlying supply constraint of real estate. Discovery was improved, yes, but distribution was still tethered to the hard limits of physical space.

A Historical Analogy

This pattern is not new. Human progress has always depended on distribution revolutions.

• Sea-going vessels carrying goods across continents fueled the vast fortunes of the British Empire throughout the 17th and 18th centuries, turning trade routes into arteries of power and wealth.

• Electrical wires carried energy into homes and factories, unlocking modern industry and reshaping the very rhythms of daily life.

• The internet spreads information across the globe at lightning speed, unleashing modern technology and transforming how societies connect, learn, and create.

Each of these leaps solved the distribution problem, be it for physical goods, energy or information.

Streams of Distribution

Seen this way, the internet has opened up rivers of distribution in many directions. It has reshaped how content and attention flow, through platforms like YouTube, TikTok, and Substack. It has made trust and reputation portable through reviews, GitHub repositories, and LinkedIn profiles. It has reorganized relationships and communities through dating apps and Discord. It has redistributed capital and opportunity through Kickstarter campaigns and remote job platforms.

All of these are different expressions of the same underlying principle. Distribution is the quiet engine that runs beneath them.

Closing Reflection

I was listening to a cinema conference where actors and distributors were in conversation, and one remark stayed with me: “Content is King, but Distribution is God.” The speaker’s point was that no matter how good your content is, it won’t find the fame or money it deserves unless the right distribution channels carry it forward to the right audience. And those who control distribution platforms hold the real leverage — with the greatest potential to become wealthy, not by being unfair, but simply by being the indispensable bridge between creators and audiences.

And it is in this distribution-channel theme where the true breeding ground of innovation exists. Consider Netflix: it didn’t start by producing films, but by reimagining digital distribution, it redefined how the world consumes cinema. Or Spotify, which disrupted music not by creating songs but by transforming how they reached listeners. Similarly, Apple’s App Store and YouTube built massive ecosystems by becoming distribution hubs for apps and videos rather than by making all the content themselves.

This pattern holds beyond the media. Visa, for instance, doesn’t create money or issue credit — but by operating the rails through which payments flow, it became one of the most valuable companies in the world. Stripe followed a similar path in the digital age: it didn’t reinvent money, but by building developer-friendly APIs, it democratized access to payment infrastructure and became the invisible backbone of countless startups. And on a global scale, the Suez Canal shows the same principle in the physical world: it doesn’t manufacture a single good, yet by serving as a vital artery for global trade, it commands immense economic and geopolitical influence.

In every domain, distribution channels aren’t just middlemen rather they are often the deepest sources of leverage and the spark for transformative innovation.

It is a great joy to read and dwell on scriptures that have come down to us through Indian (i.e Hindu) sages, for they are known for their unique universal perspective, their deep sense of intimacy, and their optimistic push for everyone to attain a state beyond suffering.

I have yet to find another body of text where we are encouraged to attain freedom while living a life suited for the modern world. As otherwise, most scriptures tend to be highly allegorical or theological. If you wish to gain the higher qualities of life, qualities through which you can enjoy a deep sense of existential freedom while living in the modern world, you are often asked either to believe in a set of dogmas situated in a distant past, or to follow a list of do’s and don’ts. But does that solve the inner existential hunger we all feel? I am not sure it does.

In my experience, only knowledge-based scriptures such as the Ashtavakra Gita, the Mandukya Upanishad, and, more broadly as a practical manual, the Bhagavad Gita, form a triad that has given me a taste of eternity. They have grounded me in solutions to questions that once kept me awake at night, questions I believe everyone must feel in their deepest beings, questions which came to me rather early in life.

Finding no answers in society at large, not through friends, professors of religion, or scientific enquiry, I eventually, through repeated searching, came to two stalwart sages of modern India. Their teachings gave me a foundation for understanding the human condition and helped me resolve the deep unrest I once felt. Now I try to articulate these findings here so others might also benefit, or at least find a way to address these questions. The answers, I believe, are not rooted in the material civilization of the West, but in the spiritual foundations of India and her sages.

Alright, enough of the build-up. Let us dive into some pristine Advaita and dwell there for as long as we can. I have come to see this too as a muscle, just like the ones we build in the gym.

First and foremost, saints such as Sri Ramakrishna and Sri Ramana Maharshi are living proof of the Upanishads, which tell us again and again that we are, in essence, Divine beings. All Indian saints are manifestations of the principles laid down in the Upanishads, examples of what happens when such knowledge ripens. The first thing that happens when we study their lives is a sudden clarity about the point of this long-drawn existence. At the surface, life can feel confusing. We are told to spend our youth in school, then more years in college, only to work for a company or business so we can earn our bread. Some well-meaning voices tell us to become entrepreneurs so that we have no boss, more control, and more freedom. Others urge us to serve the nation, contribute to GDP growth, be ethical and kind, and be good consumers.

None of this is wrong. There is truth in all of it. But all this is relative tweaking; it is not the solution to the real problem. I see videos of people leaving their 9-to-5 jobs calling them a trap, and then building YouTube channels in the name of freedom. Maybe they have avoided the numbness of corporate life, and now they have the freedom to choose what rabbit hole to dive into for a video. But soon enough, this too can start to feel like a job. I hope it does not for them, that the honeymoon period lasts for life and that they can make enough to stay afloat. There is nothing wrong with that either.

What I am saying is that all these tweaks are immaterial when seen from the standpoint of our true existential thirst. If that thirst is not quenched, the same morbid banality of life will return, given enough time. The only solution then seems to be to find flaws in the current way and try something new. But is that a real solution, or just a band-aid over a problem we have not truly understood?

Let us then face the common existential problem that all of us share, which is death. I am sorry if I have disturbed any hope of physical immortality, but what I mean is that we are actually Immortal, not in terms of the body, but in terms of our real nature, our essence, which the Upanishads call the Self, or Atman. This Self is the true nature of all of us. It is simply hidden, and there is a process to uncover it, called sadhana.

The natural next question is: what is the outcome of such practice?

The answer is pure, unalloyed bliss, not in a personal sense, but as a deep joy that radiates from within and touches everyone in your sphere. This state is called JivanMukti, liberation while living. Once understood and seen in living examples, this knowledge can completely free us from our deep-seated existential fears.

The two examples I mentioned, Sri Ramakrishna and Sri Ramana Maharshi, were born in different parts of India, separated by only a few decades. Their legacy is such that anyone who came into contact with them realized they were not ordinary beings, but ones entirely established in Self-Knowledge. Their influence was so profound that one gave rise to a monastic order and the other to a great ashrama and a doting set of devotees.

When I began my own questions along existential lines, I found, through the grace of the internet and the fact of living in New York, a connection to ardent followers of both saints. Over the past seven or eight years, I have enjoyed their company deeply. In the process, my “I” has been churned so that more of the blissful Self shines through, and less of the ego remains. I cannot claim to be fully established in the Immortal Self. Indeed, no one can truly claim that, for even to make the claim requires the ego. Rather, I write here simply so that whatever benefit I have received may be shared wholeheartedly with other seekers of truth, wherever they are in their journey.

Alright, back to my original point, which was to dwell more on chapter 18 of the Astavakra Gita. It has 100 verses in total, which is quite a lot, so perhaps the best approach is to start with a few verses at a time and offer a free explanation of them. These verses, even if read without any explanation, can have a profound effect on you, the reader, since the premise of the discussion is nothing but Us—our Real Nature!.

My personal, selfish reason for writing a free-flowing commentary on these verses is that it allows me to spend more time with the elixir-like words of this chapter, and to soak in more of the clean, purifying waters of Advaita. Let’s begin.

The specific English translation I am using here is by Thomas Byrom, from the book The Heart of Awareness. Swami Sarvapriyananda, one of the best teachers of Advaita in my view in this age, recommends this translation for its modern interpretation, clarity, and refusal to be bogged down by overly strict literary correctness—while still maintaining a natural, enjoyable flow in the English language.

Ch - 18 | The Master

Love your true Self,

Which is naturally happy

And peaceful and bright!

Awaken to your own true nature,

And all delusion melts like a dream.

The first verse starts with the statement “The Master loves himself”. What does this mean?

A novice student of Vedanta would think that this teaching is promoting self love in the most banal sense, that is - take a selfie, post in Instagram stating that you are focusing on self-love these days and generate some sort of self-appreciation through this method.

No!

Immediately, the first correction here that should happen to a mature student of Advaita is that the true Self is impersonal. Thus, this statement doesn’t mean—say my name is Adam, and if I have attained Knowledge of my True Self—then “Adam” starts loving himself as a person.

No!

The moment Adam became Self-Realized, and thus indirectly the Master, what happens is that the being who was appropriating himself as Adam no longer (or for the want of a better term - loosely) associates itself with the name and form of Adam anymore.

So the statement “Master loves his true Self”, means that the Master has disassociated from the name and form of Adam, knowing it is just a mask, a mere idea on top of the “naturally happy, peaceful, and bright True Self ”. Rather, Adam now associates firmly with the True Self first and then the name and form of “Adam.”

The last two lines of this verse directly ask the reader to awaken to their true nature, just like Adam did above. Adam realized he is not this person “Adam” who was born in such and such a place, was born to such and such parents, had a terrible childhood because of the breaking apart of his parents while growing up, and had reasonably good high school years but was socially inept (alright, I am just making this up, but this is a story I hear from a lot of posts on Substack. I hope you get the idea here.).

This whole life story is of Adam, and not You! This is true awakening, and this is what Astavakra is asking you and me to make: this leap from the gross association with the body and mind, the personality, and the banality of everyday life to the love of our True Self, which is naturally Happy.

Now without knowing or understanding the above process, people try to fix their lives by throwing bandaid solutions to their inner hunger. It could mean doing anything from getting married to gain happiness, or getting divorced later again to gain some happiness, or begetting children to have a family life, or running away from the 9–5 to build a solopreneur job, or become an entrepreneur to boost up the economy etc. You see—the list goes on and on. These solutions are at the level of the personality of Adam which is completely alright depending on the stage/situation one is in, but the thing to note is that these are not existential solutions or rather there are no true solutions available at this level for questions which are much deeper.

The solutions mentioned here will fulfill certain needs and urges of that stage in life. Though, however much a person tries to solve existential problems through such acts, one is bound to come to a dead end soon. And why is this the case?

Because this level, the level of personality, is a mere dream and technically has no relation to our Infinite Nature, which is the True Self—the precious treasure that sages such as Maharishi Ramana and Sri Ramakrishna, and the Upanishads, and the Astavakra never get tired of speaking about! The True Self is hiding in plain sight, and the process of discovering our Real Self and slowly, loosely dissociating from the regular, personality-driven self is the mark of the churning of “I.”

And thus, the master cherishes his True Self—naturally happy, peaceful, and radiant. Having awakened to his True Nature, all delusions have dissolved like a dream. He has stepped free from the tangle of notions that once bound him. For such a one, the problems of personality are not ultimately real. This knowledge changes everything. It grants a deep freedom, allowing one to live fully, whatever the shape of life may be in that moment. This is the promise of Advaita: that is freedom while living.

Let’s take a break now. We can start with the next set of verses in the next post. This is a lot for a single post given I do feel the most important section has been covered in some details. Worth sitting with this for some time before we start again!

In today’s world, especially in the West, success is often defined by what can be seen and measured: wealth, productivity, efficiency, and social standing. This mindset is deeply woven into the American way of life. Time is optimized, life is planned, and work becomes the centerpiece of identity.

This approach has built remarkable institutions. The bustling stock markets, seamless logistics, and thriving tech hubs are all proof of what disciplined effort can achieve. But beneath this glittering surface, there’s a quiet erosion of stillness, of balance, of peace.

When life becomes something to manage rather than something to live, we miss the point. The mind becomes restless. Money, once a means to support life, begins to dictate it. And since there’s no final destination where one can say, “Now I have enough,” the chase becomes endless. Without a higher compass to guide it, ambition turns into entrapment.

So the real question arises: what is truly worth seeking?

India, despite all its contradictions, has carried a different torch. For centuries, it has looked inward. Its ideal wasn’t to conquer lands or dominate markets, but to know the Self. Life in India, at least in spirit, was not about maximizing output but about realizing truth. The body was seen not as something to flaunt but to care for — as a temple, not a trophy.

I remember the small towns I grew up in, where mornings began with temple bells and neighbors knew one another by name. Life moved slower, but it felt fuller. There was a kind of richness that had nothing to do with money. Later, when I moved to New York and started working in the heart of Manhattan, I felt a different rhythm. Fast, sharp, impressive. My first job felt like stepping into a dream. Yet some evenings, walking back through the streets of midtown, surrounded by ambition and bright lights, I would feel an odd emptiness. I was doing well by every metric, yet something inside was unsettled.

One evening, I found myself reflecting on a powerful quote by Swami Vivekananda: "He who sees in this world of manifoldness that One running through all, in this world of death he who finds that One Infinite Life, and in this world of insentience and ignorance he who finds that One Light and Knowledge, unto him belongs eternal peace. Unto none else, unto none else." The words stopped me in my tracks.

Here I was, surrounded by ambition and velocity, yet a part of me longed for that peace he described—not as something to be earned but something to be seen, realized, lived. I began to wonder if I had spent too long mistaking movement for meaning, momentum for purpose.

In the Indian tradition, there’s a beautiful framework. Artha (wealth) and Kama (pleasure) are valid pursuits, but only when guided by Dharma—the moral and spiritual order. Otherwise, the very things we seek begin to bind us. Desires multiply. Restlessness grows.

The American system, for all its achievements, often lacks a language to talk about the soul. Wellness gets outsourced: to apps, retreats, therapists. But India, in its essence, begins with the soul. Everything else follows.

That’s why Karma Yoga, as Swami Vivekananda taught it, feels so healing. But even before him, it was Sri Krishna who first laid down this path in the Bhagavad Gita: action without attachment, selfless work as a spiritual discipline. Vivekananda took this ancient vision and made it newly relevant. Karma Yoga is not the renunciation of work, but of attachment to its results. You engage fully, giving your best, but without anxiety about outcomes. You work because it is your nature to do so, and because the work itself is your offering. Even the most ordinary task, done in this spirit, becomes sacred. Wealth, when generated this way, loses its power to bind. It becomes a tool, not a trap. Life becomes a continuous yajna—a sacred act of giving—rather than a negotiation for gain.

And you, as Brahman, are the one to choose what that offering looks like. It could be building a company, caring for a loved one, teaching a child, or simply living each day with quiet clarity. There is no single mold. What matters is that your actions arise from freedom, not fear. Outer work becomes a reflection of inner stillness.

The chase ends when you see you were never meant to chase. You were meant to awaken. Peace, then, is not the reward at the end of success. It is success.

This does not mean withdrawing from life. That is a common misunderstanding. Peace, as Karma Yoga envisions it, is not about passivity but about inner freedom. It is a dynamic, engaged life where craving quietly dissolves. Work becomes an offering, not a transaction. You act with full intensity but without inner disturbance. You move with clarity, not compulsion. That stillness in motion—that is peace.

A peaceful person might not be rich or celebrated. But they are whole. They are not running from themselves. They are at home, wherever they are. That is why peace, not achievement or hustle or even freedom as others define it, is the only real success.

Let everything else serve that peace.

Otherwise, we risk mistaking the noise of ambition for the music of purpose.

Otherwise, it’s just noise.

But there is also another presence within us. It is calm, spacious, and still. It is content even when no one is watching. It does not chase, and it does not fear. This is the deeper “I”, the higher Self, the Witness, the spark of the Divine.

Both of these live in us, side by side. The same heart holds the craving and the clarity. The same mind generates the confusion and the silence. The same body carries both the poison and the bliss. It is a humbling thing to realize that our suffering and our freedom come from the same source i.e ourselves!

This realization naturally leads to a deeper question.

• If both joy and restlessness live within us, is there a way to build a life that leans more gently toward the joy?

• Is it possible to draw closer to our higher self, not just in fleeting moments, but in the quiet rhythm of daily life?

• And can we do this without getting pulled back again and again into the old patterns of the smaller self?

The answer, if there is one, does not come through sudden breakthroughs or grand gestures. It begins, most often, with a quiet shift in orientation. What keeps us from resting in that deeper joy is rarely some external lack. More often, it is the subtle architecture of the ego — the need to be seen, to be right, to be in control that tightens around us. The ego is not to be shamed or crushed. It is part of our structure. But it must not be in charge. When allowed to lead, it distorts even love, turning relationships into negotiations and purpose into performance. But when it is placed in the service of something larger - a truth, a presence, a devotion then it softens. And in that softening, we begin to remember the part of us that does not need to grasp in order to shine.

This is where the spirit of service becomes central. To serve another not for reward or affirmation, but because you see in them the same divine presence that lives in you is the beginning of a different kind of life. Swami Vivekananda’s teaching, “Service to man is service to God,” is not a metaphor. It is a path. It means that each interaction is a chance to serve the divine in disguise. And it is through this spirit that relationships, too, can be transformed.

The structure that has helped me understand and walk this path more consciously is Vivekananda’s teaching on the Four Yogas. These four are not rigid paths, but expressions of the different parts of our nature. When seen clearly, they help us turn our whole life into spiritual practice.

1. Karma Yoga is the yoga of action. It teaches us to do our work without attachment to the outcome. In a relationship, this means offering small acts of care not for praise or attention, but because it is your dharma. You cook a meal, not to be thanked, but to nourish. You listen, not to be admired, but to understand. The relationship becomes a field of service, where ego slowly loosens its grip, and love becomes quieter and more sincere.

2. Bhakti Yoga is the yoga of devotion. Emotions are not ignored in this path, but transformed. When you feel love, longing, jealousy, or grief, you do not suppress them, nor do you unleash them unconsciously. You offer them to the divine. In companionship, this might mean remembering that your partner is not just a person you love, but a form through which you are learning to surrender. The relationship becomes a space where the heart is purified, not by perfection, but by humility and reverence.

3. Raja Yoga is the yoga of inner discipline. It reminds us that silence is necessary. Stillness is not withdrawal, but restoration. In relationships, there are moments when both people need to return to their own center. Time alone, moments of quiet, practices of prayer or meditation - these are not signs of distance, but signs of health. They allow each person to serve from fullness, not from depletion.

4. Jnana Yoga is the yoga of knowledge. It invites us to inquire deeply into the nature of the self. In the context of a relationship, it teaches us to look beyond roles, personalities, and expectations. We begin to see that behind every face is the same light. The other person is not ultimately separate. They are another expression of the One. This knowledge does not erase difference, but it softens the tension that difference often brings.

When a relationship is approached through these yogas, something changes. It is no longer a place to fulfill emotional need, but a place to practice inner growth. You are not trying to extract something from the other. You are trying to serve what is highest in them. You begin to love not because they complete you, but because they too carry the Divine. Love becomes worship. Presence becomes offering.

This reframing has helped me understand why companionship matters, not just emotionally, but spiritually. When two people walk together in this way, the relationship itself becomes a kind of temple. It is not about satisfying each other’s egos. It is about tending to each other’s souls.

Of course, this is not easy. The small “I” does not dissolve quickly. It returns, often. It wants to be recognized. It wants to be right. But the presence of another person gives us daily opportunities to see it, to work with it, and to gently offer it to something higher.

This is why I no longer see relationships as separate from spiritual life. They are not obstacles. They are part of the path. They test our sincerity. They reveal our habits. And they give us a chance, again and again, to serve.

To see the divine in another person, and to treat them with the reverence that would arise from that recognition, is the highest use of love. It is not grand or dramatic. It is quiet, often unseen. But it changes everything.

It turns marriage into a shared practice. It turns conversation into communion. It turns ordinary life into a sacred offering.

This view, most famously expressed in Buddhism, is precise and powerful. It exposes the instability of life, the inevitability of loss, and the illusion of control.

But there’s another voice, quieter yet radiant, rising from the same soil. It comes from Advaita Vedanta, a voice that looks at the same world and says something surprising.

“Yes, it’s impermanent… and that’s why it’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it’s not ultimately real… and that’s what makes it play.”

Where Buddhism emphasizes renunciation through insight, Advaita offers freedom through recognition. It doesn’t ask you to reject the world or cling to it. It invites you to see through it. And in doing so, to see more clearly and more joyfully.

Swami Vivekananda called this world a play, a cosmic drama in which we are divine actors. Ramana Maharshi said the world is an expression of the Self, not separate from it. And Sri Ramakrishna, with the innocent authority of a sage, called it a mansion of mirth.

This piece is about that vision. The vision that says life is not a trap. It is a stage. You are not here to escape it. You are here to play your part and remember who you are, even as the scene changes.

Let’s begin.

Vivekananda: “It Is All Play”

Swami Vivekananda didn’t just speak about the world being unreal. He went further and said it is all play. And when you read his words, they carry both thunder and laughter.

“You are the almighty God playing. If you want to play on the side and take the part of a beggar, you enjoy being the beggar… You know your real nature to be divine. It is all fun. Know it and play.”

The power of this idea is not in making life superficial. It lies in lifting us out of self-inflicted seriousness. We are not here to renounce life in disgust. We are here to live it fully, knowing that its weight is temporary. We suffer most when we forget that we are in a play. The moment we remember, the fear softens. Even pain begins to have space around it.

“The whole universe is a vast play. All is good because all is fun.”

This can sound insensitive if misunderstood. But Vivekananda doesn’t mean we should laugh at others’ suffering or dismiss real challenges. Rather, he invites us to rise into a perspective that holds everything - joy and pain, victory and defeat - as part of a larger unfolding.

We still live, love, fall, struggle, and grow. But we do so without clinging. We remember who we are beneath the mask.

“This toy world would not be here if we were knowing players. We must play blindfolded. Some of us take the role of rogues, some of heroes. Never mind. It is all play.”

Natak, and the king who dances

In Vedantic thought, the metaphor of Natak or divine play is more than just poetic language. It is a profound pointer toward the nature of reality itself.

The world, according to Advaita, is not an absolute truth. It appears and disappears in the light of consciousness, much like a drama staged before a silent witness. It has rhythm, emotion, character, movement — but its essence lies not in the performance, but in the one who watches.

This is where the metaphor of Natak becomes powerful.

It tells us: You are not ultimately the character. You are the awareness in which the entire performance arises.

And remarkably, this insight is enshrined in the very name of God — Nataraja.

The word Nataraja comes from nata, meaning actor or performer, and raja, meaning king. Nataraja literally means the King of Nataks.

This is not coincidence. It is theology with a twinkle in its eye. If God Himself is the King of the Play, then what does that say about us?

It says something radical: we are not meant to suffer through life as burdened spectators. We are meant to dance knowing it is all a play!

We are meant to participate in the drama of life with full presence, but without forgetting our true nature. Just as Nataraja performs the cosmic dance while remaining rooted in stillness, we too are invited to act in the world while remembering that we are not bound by it.

This is why Swami Vivekananda said:

“God is our eternal playmate. How beautifully He is playing. The play is finished when the cycle ends. There is rest. And again, we all come out and play.”

The vision here is not distant or mythological. It is intimate and immediate.

The same intelligence that moves the galaxies also animates your breath, your thoughts, your laughter, and your tears.

And if He is the King of the Play, then perhaps our highest spiritual posture is not withdrawal or cynicism, but conscious participation touched by joy.

When Life Becomes Too Serious

We’ve all had moments when life feels unbearably heavy. The demands of work, relationships, uncertainty, or personal pain can become overwhelming. We try to solve life. We try to control it. We grip harder.

But Vedanta offers a quiet, surprising alternative. It asks us to loosen the grip. To remember that this is not the ultimate reality. To remember the play.

“But as soon as you give up the serious idea of reality as the characteristic of the changing incidents of the three minutes of life and know it to be but a stage on which we are playing, helping Him to play, at once misery ceases for you.”

This doesn’t mean ignoring reality or pretending problems don’t exist. It means we stop carrying them as if they define who we are.

Even Vivekananda spoke of Christ’s crucifixion as part of this Leela, the divine play. He wasn’t mocking the suffering. He was revealing something deeper — that even in the most painful parts of life, there is a deeper truth holding it all.

A Personal Reflection: From Intensity to Lightness

I used to think of spiritual life as a mission. Something to accomplish. Something to win. I approached it like a project, with focus and discipline, but also with a lot of seriousness.

Over time, something in me began to relax. The teachings of Vivekananda and Ramana began to melt the edges of that intensity.

I began to see that this whole thing - life, spirituality, even seeking is not about tightening the grip. It is about softening the heart.

It is not about escaping the world. It is about playing your part with love while remembering the stage you’re on.

Now, when I feel lost or low, I ask myself:

Is this the part of the play where the character struggles?

Okay, let me play it well. Let me give it depth. Let me stay rooted in who I am, even while acting the scene.

This shift didn’t make me careless. It made me kinder. It made me curious again. It made me feel more alive.

🌸 Epilogue: A Mansion of Mirth

The world is useful. It teaches us. It humbles us. It gives us moments to love, grow, reflect, and rise.

But it is not ultimately real. It is not a prison. It is not a punishment. It is, as Sri Ramakrishna so joyfully said,

“a mansion of mirth.”

We are guests in this luminous mansion. We pass through its halls — some grand, some shadowy — but always held in the laughter of the One who built it.

This mansion is not meant to be escaped in fear. It is not meant to be possessed in greed. It is meant to be wandered through with wonder, with gratitude, and with playfulness.

Because the builder of this mansion is not a stern architect. He is a playful artist.

Behind every scene — the joy, the sorrow, the stillness, the storm — is the rhythm of that Cosmic Dancer.

That is the meaning of Nataraja.

That is the smile in Vivekananda’s thunder.

That is the stillness at the heart of Ramana’s silence.

So live your life. Strive. Fall. Serve. Create. Laugh. Cry.

But somewhere within, carry this quiet knowing:

It is all play.

And this world is a mansion of mirth.

And that is what makes it sacred.

But the greater loss wasn’t just material. It was the erosion of confidence—of a culture that once believed deeply in its ability to shape the world. Over time, poverty became normalized, and aspiration was seen as either futile or inappropriate. Generations grew up adjusting to scarcity, told that survival was sufficient and ambition belonged elsewhere.

And yet, India didn’t collapse. Despite these heavy blows, it held on to its civilizational identity—an unbroken cultural continuity that’s rare among ancient societies. Where Greece and Rome fragmented into history, India retained a living tradition. But that continuity, while remarkable, came with consequences: it was accompanied by persistent poverty.

Most Indians, regardless of region or religion, have heard stories of deprivation in their families. These are not distant memories rather they are often only a generation away. They’re woven into the fabric of how we think, how we spend, and how we dream.

A system that prioritized security over creation

After independence, India adopted a centrally planned economic model. The intention was clear and, in many ways, understandable. Colonialism had left deep scars. Institutions were weak, industry had been hollowed out, and the state was expected to step in and rebuild. The instinct was to control and distribute, rather than to enable and grow.

But this model came with trade-offs. Wealth must first be created before it can be distributed. This simple truth was often overlooked. Instead of encouraging innovation, experimentation, and enterprise, the system elevated compliance. Government jobs became the highest aspiration. Prestige was found in degrees, titles, and designations, not in creativity or risk-taking.

At the same time, India’s spiritual heritage remained strong. Seers like Ramakrishna Paramahamsa and Ramana Maharshi offered profound insights into inner life and spiritual clarity. However, rather than drawing strength from this spiritual legacy to build outward, we often used it as an excuse to avoid engaging with the material world. Capitalism was dismissed as Western, greedy, or unspiritual.

That dichotomy is false. There is no contradiction between spiritual depth and material creation. A confident civilization should be able to hold both. India’s soul is not so fragile that it must be protected from prosperity. On the contrary, it is precisely because that soul is resilient that we can now pursue prosperity without losing ourselves.

Capitalism and the Indian context

When practiced with integrity and transparency, capitalism is not about unchecked greed. It’s about value creation, voluntary exchange, and individual agency. In India, where social mobility has often been constrained by caste, legacy, and geography, capitalism has the potential to create a more level playing field than any centrally planned system.

It doesn’t matter where you come from, what your surname is, or who your parents are. What matters is what you can build or offer. This is particularly powerful in a country like India, where inherited privilege continues to shape outcomes in education, employment, and access to networks.

That said, capitalism has its risks—concentration of wealth, environmental degradation, and short-term thinking among them. But these risks are manageable. The bigger danger is to avoid the system altogether and stay stuck in a place where very few have enough to begin with. India doesn’t need to chase wealth for its own sake—but it does need to build the foundation for widespread prosperity.

Why our definition of success needs to evolve

One of the most persistent features of India’s current system is its obsession with standardized exams. Whether it is JEE, NEET, CAT, UPSC, or GATE, the path to opportunity is tightly controlled by filters. These exams are designed to identify talent, but they also narrow the definition of what talent looks like. They reward conformity and precision, but often miss qualities like imagination, initiative, and resilience.

This overemphasis on ranking and gatekeeping explains why India produces so many technically capable individuals but relatively few original product builders. An entrepreneur does not need a rank. They need vision, courage, and the willingness to fail repeatedly. A society focused entirely on filtering ends up producing excellent administrators but fewer creators.

What we’re missing: The Hardware Gap

India’s growing momentum in software has rightly earned attention. Young engineers are building AI startups, participating in open-source projects, and increasingly working on global-first products. The entry barrier is relatively low — a laptop, a network connection, and time. This has created a sense of accessibility and progress.

Yet, this surge in software innovation makes our absence in hardware all the more striking. India’s capabilities in core hardware innovation — whether in semiconductors, sensors, batteries, or robotics — remain minimal. While our best minds are developing algorithms, we are still importing the chips they run on. This is not just an economic gap; it is a strategic vulnerability.

Hardware is slow, capital-intensive, and infrastructure-heavy. It requires patience, physical testing, and often a much longer time horizon to pay off. But it is also where real economic moats are built. If India wants to move beyond assembling components and into building enduring, defensible technology companies, we must treat hardware capability as a national priority.

A Personal Reflection

This failure is not just systemic. It shaped my own life.

I studied electrical engineering in my undergraduate years. I was drawn to the subject because it offered the possibility of building real-world systems. But by the time I graduated, it became clear that the opportunities were extremely limited. Outside a handful of public-sector firms like NTPC or BHEL, and even there mostly for top rankers, the options were meagre. The roles were often in remote locations with little room for creativity or innovation.

Eventually, I decided to switch to computer science. I had some experience with computer vision, a couple of Google Summer of Code projects, and a growing curiosity about the open-source world. With just a laptop and access to the internet, I began to find my path.

That pivot turned out well for me. But I do not think of it only as a personal triumph. I also see it as a failure of the broader system. A country with over a billion people could not offer a meaningful path for a motivated electrical engineer to build something new. That is a gap we urgently need to address.

Companies like NVIDIA or Apple were not built on software alone. They succeeded because they controlled the full stack, from hardware to software. If India wants to create truly generational companies, it cannot stop at code. It must learn to design, manufacture, and innovate in the physical world as well.

Learning from Zoho: A quiet blueprint for Indian capitalism

Among Indian companies, Zoho Corporation stands out not only for what it has built, but how and where it has chosen to build. Founded by Sridhar Vembu, Zoho is one of the few product companies in India that competes directly with global software giants, not just local startups or IT service firms. It has built a comprehensive suite of enterprise software products that go toe-to-toe with the likes of Microsoft, Salesforce, and Google Workspace. That in itself is remarkable.

But what makes Zoho even more fascinating is the context in which it operates. Zoho is headquartered in rural Tamil Nadu, far from India’s tech hubs like Bengaluru or Hyderabad. It has consciously avoided venture capital and has prioritized independent, long-term growth over short-term scale. This goes against the grain of most Indian startups, which are often funded by foreign capital and structured for rapid valuation rather than deep product development.

Zoho has proven that world-class software can be built outside urban centers, and that rural India can participate meaningfully in global technological innovation. Its approach is rooted in self-reliance and inclusion, not just disruption. It is not only building products, but also building people.

That’s where Zoho Schools of Learning come in. These are in-house training academies that admit students from modest or rural backgrounds, many without formal college degrees. Instead of requiring expensive credentials, Zoho trains them directly in relevant skills and integrates them into its workforce. This model bypasses the conventional academic-industrial pipeline, making opportunity available to those who might otherwise be excluded.

This kind of end-to-end ecosystem—education, employment, and innovation—grounded in Indian soil and yet globally competitive, is a blueprint for what Indian capitalism could look like. Ethical, sustainable, rooted in community, and yet ambitious on the global stage.

There is no other Indian company quite like it. Not in terms of its operating philosophy, not in terms of its rural investment, and certainly not in terms of its ability to compete globally on product quality alone. It proves that we don’t have to choose between serving India and serving the world. With the right kind of capitalism, we can do both.

And perhaps most importantly, Vembu is now using Zoho’s revenue to seed small, deeply technical hardware startups—quietly funding the next generation of makers India desperately needs.

Conclusion: A broader kind of trust

India’s next leap won’t come from more centralized control or regulatory oversight. It will come from trusting its people to build—and then getting out of their way. That means creating an environment where entrepreneurship is viable not just in Bengaluru or Gurugram, but in smaller towns and rural areas. It means funding R&D, reducing red tape, and seeing ambition not as a threat, but as an asset.

This isn’t a call for reckless deregulation or blind faith in markets. It’s a call to recognize that real creation—especially in a civilizational culture like ours—needs room to breathe.

My own journey may have worked out, but I want the next generation of engineers to have more options. If someone wants to work in core technology, build a chip, design a robot, or develop power systems, they shouldn’t have to abandon their path because the system doesn’t support them.

Let them build—so that India can build with them!

And I’d sit back, arms folded, thinking: what a convenient crutch. What a perfect excuse to stay soft, lazy, and inert. Believe in a story, outsource responsibility, and hope some invisible being fixes things.

I was very impressed with myself.

Then came the Mandukya Upanishad. And it hit like a brick to the face. No poetry. No miracles. Just pure metaphysics. Just the quiet, terrifying claim that “All this is Brahman. This Self is Brahman.” And suddenly, the floor gave way.

Something in me went still. Not enlightened. Just… silenced.

Since then, I’ve lost the capacity to mock God. Not because I’ve turned into a believer. Not because I’ve grown more spiritually sensitive. I’m not here to hug trees or chant mantras at the moon.

It’s just that I realized: God and I are not two different things.

• Sometimes we’re One.

• Sometimes She’s my Mother.

• Sometimes He’s my mirror.

• Sometimes It’s just the silence watching both.

  

My earlier contempt wasn’t really aimed at God. It was aimed at the people who cried out to God—the ones I saw as weak, desperate, beneath me. But that judgment feels absurd now. Who the worshipper is doesn’t matter at all. What matters is that this very “I”—the one judging—was just a costume hiding something deeper.

I was standing on Brahman to spit at God.

Who exactly was I mocking?

Because if the Self is all there is, then all my clever takedowns, my snide jokes, my intellectual pride—they were just boomerangs. I was never attacking faith. I was attacking something inside myself I hadn’t yet understood.

And now I see it.

All that mocking? Just me shouting at a wall and hearing my own voice echo back.

And now, Ramana Maharshi’s words land differently

Question: What is the nature of the Self?

Maharshi: “What exists in truth is the Self alone. The world, the individual soul and God are appearances in it, like silver in mother-of-pearl. These three appear at the same time and disappear at the same time. The Self is that where there is absolutely no ‘I’-thought. That is called ‘Silence’. The Self itself is the world; the Self itself is ‘I’; the Self itself is God. All is Siva, the Self.”

I used to laugh at God. Now I just listen.

Because even the one laughing—was That.

Beneath it lie two deceptively simple but profoundly shaping questions:

1. Must one renounce the world to live a truly spiritual life?

2. Are personal desires inherently incompatible with spiritual growth?

I have seen some spiritual teachers speak of desire in such a harsh and dismissive way that it leaves a lasting mark on the listener. For a young seeker especially, this kind of teaching can crush the natural aspiration for abundance, creativity, and a well‑lived life. It can render the heart dry, erode compassion, and create confusion about ambition and excellence.

In some cases, it pushes people to feel guilty for being part of the world, as if striving to build, achieve, or love deeply is inherently unspiritual. This is not only misguided; it is dangerous. Such a message can unwittingly breed guilt, alienation from life, or spiritual bypassing—the avoidance of responsibility under the guise of renunciation.

At the same time, I have noticed a persistent glorification of the monastic path over the life of the engaged householder, as if the one who walks away from the world is always purer than the one who builds within it. This bias is subtle but strong in many spiritual communities, and it often leaves the sincere seeker torn between two worlds—with no real guidance on how to walk both.

I will now try to shed light on these questions through the lens of Swami Vivekananda, who in my view was the torchbearer of Hinduism to the West. He played a crucial role in modernizing its spiritual expression by clearing it of caste‑bound distortions and by softening the rigid divide between the life of a monk and that of a householder. I believe he was able to do this because he kept the focus firmly on the essential goal: the realization of one’s identity with the Atman, beyond body and mind. From this place of inner oneness all apparent distinctions dissolve. It is only from this standpoint that any spiritual teaching finds its true foundation. Anything else, however outwardly disciplined or renunciatory, becomes a change in lifestyle rather than a resolution of the deeper problem.

Our primary source is his classic Jnana‑Yoga discourse “God in Everything”.

From a single lecture, Vivekananda sketches an entire evolutionary arc of desire.

Desire as per Swami Vivekananda: A Three‑Stage Evolution

[1 ] Desire‑Driven Action

Bondage as Teacher

“What makes us miserable? The cause of all miseries… is desire.”

At the first stage, craving rules. Fulfil the urge and enjoy a momentary sweetness; miss it and suffer distress. Vivekananda nevertheless refuses to call this a mistake: chairs lack desire and therefore avoid pain—but they never evolve. Pain, born of thwarted longing, becomes the first tutor in freedom.

Inference: Stage‑1 is the kindergarten of spiritual life. Desire yanks us forward like a restless teacher: when we grab the object we taste a sugar‑rush of pleasure; when we miss it we smart with pain. That ceaseless swing is not failure but feedback. Each spike and crash sketches in bold strokes the truth that borrowed thrills fade quickly, and that lasting contentment must lie elsewhere. The very friction of wanting keeps the soul from fossilising into inertia, urging it to hunt for a deeper, steadier joy. Pain, then, is not punishment—it is a pointing finger that whispers, “Aim higher; you were made for more.”

[2] Deified Desire

Crossing the Threshold: Work as Worship, Fueled by Perseverance

Stage‑2 opens with a noticeable inner shift. The seeker is no longer spell‑bound by the pleasure‑pain pendulum of Stage‑1. The very texture of experience has changed: desires still arise, but they are felt rather than obeyed; their coming and going are watched with a new delicacy, the way a musician hears overtones that the casual listener misses. This heightened sensitivity is the fruit of every pang endured in Stage‑1; the friction of earlier cravings has polished the mind into a subtler instrument.

“God is in the desire that rises in your mind.”

Here Vivekananda insists that the impulse itself is no longer an enemy. To attack it would be, as he says, “suicidal advice, killing the desire and the man too.” Instead the seeker has learnt to recognise the current as divine and to channel it into vigorous, selfless action:

“So work, says the Vedanta, putting God in everything, and knowing Him to be in everything. Work incessantly, holding life as something deified, as God Himself… Thus knowing, we must work—this is the only way, there is no other.”

This turning of energy marks the decisive break with Stage‑1. Whereas before the mind lunged outward for fulfilment, it now pivots inward, seeking to offer rather than to acquire. Such consecrated effort must be lifelong:

“Desire to live a hundred years, have all earthly desires, if you wish, only deify them, convert them into heaven. Thus working, you will find the way out.”

Against any slide into lethargy he keeps repeating the need for dogged resolve:

“Perseverance will finally conquer. Nothing can be done in a day.”

“This Self is first to be heard, then to be thought upon, and then meditated upon.”

“Fill the mind with the highest thoughts… Never mind failures; they are quite natural, they are the beauty of life… Hold the ideal a thousand times, and if you fail a thousand times, make the attempt once more.”

And he illustrates how quickly our lofty ideals can collapse under pressure:

“We think highly of humanity… but when the ‘dogs’ of trial and temptation bark, we are like the stag in the fable.”

Failures still occur, and Vivekananda illustrates how old reflexes snap back when “the dogs of trial and temptation bark.” Yet the very sting of those lapses now quickens resolve instead of deepening despair. The seeker rises, re‑offers the impulse, and returns to the labour of love, knowing that inert objects “have no desire and they never suffer; but they never evolve.”

“The walls have no desire and they never suffer; but they never evolve.”

Inference: Stage‑2 is a forge kept hot by continuous, God‑centered effort. The seeker hoists the world as an altar, returns to work after every stumble, and slowly transmutes desire into selfless love. This is the stage which practically amounts to maintaining rigor in spiritual practices in daily life - whether it is of devotional or of knowledge temprament. This is the first time in the life of a person where daily life meets spiritual enquiry and meditation. And this is a stage which requires perseverance and repeated practice.

The subtle shift from Stage-1 to Stage-2

• Motivation changes. In Stage-1 the only imagined exit from restlessness is to get the object; in Stage-2 the seeker already knows that ownership cannot yield lasting peace and therefore chooses to sanctify the impulse instead of obeying it.

• Perspective widens. The same desire now appears as “God … in the desire that rises in your mind” - one more wave of divine energy to be handled, not chased or suppressed.

[3] Spontaneous Desirelessness

The Seer’s Effortless Joy

Stage‑3 dawns rather than begins; it is the natural afterglow of long, consecrated effort. Vivekananda signals the arrival point with unambiguous clarity:

“When we have given up desires, then alone shall we be able to read and enjoy this universe of God.”

The mind, once pulled outward by craving, now rests luminous and undisturbed. The world remains exactly as it was—the colours, the bustle, the daily commerce—but its grip has vanished. He clinches the contrast with his picture‑gallery vignette:

“Who enjoys the picture, the seller or the seer? … The seller is busy with his accounts; the seer has no desire to call the picture his own.”

Here the merchant‑mind still tallies profit and loss, while the seer‑mind beholds beauty for its own sake. Desirelessness is thus not a forced vacancy but an overflow: a quiet fullness that needs nothing added. Even the idea of “mine” has dropped away; the universe is experienced as a single, seamless Self.

Earlier he lamented our blinkered state: “We are dying of thirst sitting on the banks of the mightiest river… Here is the blissful universe, yet we do not find it.” Stage‑3 is the thirst finally quenched. Vivekananda insists that such realisation is possible because the mine of bliss is always present:

“Many do not know what an infinite mine of bliss is in them, around them, everywhere; they have not yet discovered it.”

In Stage‑3 that discovery becomes living fact; the mine lies open, and life flows without friction or compulsion. Work may still happen (Vivekananda himself remained intensely active), yet output is spontaneous, like a song rising unbidden.

Inference: Spontaneous desirelessness is freedom in the midst of form. The seeker no longer strives to see God in everything; he simply sees, because nothing clouds the vision. The world, once a marketplace of hopes and fears, has transmuted into a pure painting, a joy appreciated moment by moment without a single urge to own or improve it.

Why This Lens Matters

Our age alternates between glorifying relentless hustle and romanticising total retreat. Vivekananda charts a third possibility: harness desire without being harnessed by it.

Desire is the engine of evolution; chained to ego it hurts, offered to the Divine it purifies, and when its work is done it falls away, leaving a quiet, effortless joy. That is the trajectory etched into God in Everything—an emancipated vision that neither denies the world nor is dented by it.

“Desire to live a hundred years… only deify them, convert them into heaven. Thus working, you will find the way out.”

May this three‑stage arc serve as a clear lens for anyone who stands between aspiration and ambition, seeking a path that is fully human and fully divine.

Conclusion — Keeping the Baby, Draining the Bathwater

Returning to the two opening questions — Must one renounce the world? and Are personal desires inherently incompatible with spiritual growth? — Vivekananda’s answer is a resolute No on both counts, but a No grounded in reason rather than sentiment.

1. Renouncing the world wholesale is like killing the man to get rid of the mosquito. He calls such advice “suicidal,” because it would destroy the very arena where evolution unfolds. The right move is to cleanse, not to cancel; to keep the baby (dynamic life) while draining the bathwater (selfish craving).

2. Declaring desire inherently evil throws away the most potent engine of progress. When deified, the same force propels selfless work and ultimately burns itself out in spontaneous freedom. The default, knee‑jerk “give it all up” response is, in Vivekananda’s view, a triumph of feeling over rational insight - a weakness to which religions too often succumb.

Thus the lecture offers a rational middle way:

Work in the world, sanctify desire, persevere without possessiveness.

Anything less is either cowardice dressed as piety or feverish grasping masked as progress. Only this balanced path honours both the head and the heart, leading finally to the seer’s effortless joy.

People caught up in worldly identity—status, roles, desires—he considered spiritually unripe. Their minds were turned outward, away from the source of being. To such people, Ramakrishna often showed little interest. It wasn’t out of disdain, but a kind of spiritual economy. He reserved his full attention for those who had begun to ask deeper questions about the nature of the self and the meaning of life.

This sharpness can feel extreme. But it forces a simple question to the surface: Where is your sense of “I” rooted? Is it shaped by changing circumstances? Or is it anchored in something deeper?

Renunciation and Its Misreadings

Over time, many of Ramakrishna’s teachings were preserved and interpreted by monks, often with an emphasis on renunciation. While rooted in devotion, this lens can sometimes distort his core insight. The language begins to sound as if spiritual life requires rejecting the world altogether, making it easy to mistake detachment for denial.

This is where Sri Ramana Maharshi becomes essential. His presence offers a different tone—calm, quiet, and exacting. Ramana never asked anyone to abandon life or retreat to a cave. His path wasn’t built on withdrawal, but on seeing clearly.

What needs to be renounced, he insisted, is not the world but the false identification with the ego—the imagined self that clings, desires, and fears. His teachings are an invitation to look within, to examine the root of “I,” and to discover what lies beneath.

What the Ripe “I” Understands

In one of his conversations, Ramana was asked a seemingly simple question about the nature of happiness. His answer opens a direct window into what ripening really means:

A question was asked as to the nature of happiness.

Sri Ramana Maharshi:

If a man thinks that his happiness is due to external causes and his possessions, it is reasonable to conclude that his happiness must increase with the increase of possessions and diminish in proportion to their diminution. Therefore if he is devoid of possessions, his happiness should be nil. What is the real experience of man? Does it conform to this view? In deep sleep the man is devoid of possessions, including his own body. Instead of being unhappy he is quite happy. Everyone desires to sleep soundly. The conclusion is that happiness is inherent in man and is not due to external causes. One must realise his Self in order to open the store of unalloyed happiness.

Here, Ramana bypasses philosophy and turns to direct experience. If happiness depended on external things, deep sleep—where nothing remains, not even awareness of the body—should be a state of misery. But we all know it isn’t. In fact, we crave that state, night after night. Ramana’s point is simple but radical: happiness is not acquired; it is uncovered. It is inherent to the Self.

This is where the ego begins to ripen. Not by striving, but by loosening. The ego in its unripe state seeks completion in the world. As it matures, it begins to question its assumptions. It realizes that no possession, role, or relationship has ever fully satisfied. The search begins to turn inward.

A Deeper Kind of Renunciation

Ramakrishna pushed us to distinguish between the worldly and the Infinite Self. Ramana shows us how that distinction plays out inwardly. He doesn’t ask for a dramatic act of giving up, but for a subtle shift: from identifying with the waves to recognizing the ocean beneath.

The “ripe I” is not someone who has escaped the world, but someone who no longer clings to it for identity. This ripening is quiet. It unfolds as a growing disinterest in surface pleasures and a deepening pull toward stillness.

Even our most ordinary experiences, like deep sleep, carry the fragrance of this truth. When everything else falls away, what remains is peace. That peace is the Self.

So, Is Your “I” Ripening?

This isn’t a question of outer appearance or spiritual jargon. It’s about orientation. Are you still looking outward for fulfillment, or have you begun to turn inward?

The ripe “I” doesn’t fight the world. It simply stops needing it to feel whole. It starts to rest, not in what it does or owns, but in what it already is.

As Ramana said: One must realise his Self in order to open the store of unalloyed happiness.

That’s not a command. It’s a reminder. The treasure isn’t elsewhere. It’s beneath the very “I” that asks.