Let’s talk about spiritual enlightenment. You know, that lofty goal of self-realization, the grand finale of the cosmic show where you finally get it. We imagine it as a pinnacle, the top of a mighty mountain we must climb, laden with backpacks full of mantras, vegan recipes, and well-thumbed scriptures.
But what if we’ve got it all upside down? What if enlightenment isn’t a mountain, but an inverted pyramid?
Picture it: a massive, ornate pyramid, balanced precariously on its tiny, sharp point.
That single, infinitesimally small point? That’s the Truth. It’s simple, stable, and unbelievably direct. It’s what’s left when you strip away everything that changes. It’s the silent, constant awareness that’s reading these words right now. It has no name, no form, no frequent-flyer miles. It’s just… is.
The instructions to get there are almost insultingly simple: “You are not your thoughts. You are not your body. You are not your job title or your political opinions. You are the awareness in which all that stuff appears and disappears.” Done. That’s the whole teaching. Pack it up, we’re going home.
Ah, but we humans are never satisfied with simple, are we? We look at that beautiful, simple point and say, “That’s it? I can’t build a five-day retreat around that.”
And so, we build.
From that one simple point, the great, wobbling, inverted pyramid of stuff begins to rise. This is the fluff. The base of the inverted pyramid is a sprawling, chaotic metropolis of doctrines, dogmas, rituals, and rules. It’s the thousands of books explaining the one thing that needs no explanation. It’s the heated debates over whether the cosmic turtle is a sea turtle or a tortoise. It’s the secret handshakes, the special diets, the certificates of enlightenment, and the merch table in the lobby.
We spend our lives exploring this massive, ever-expanding base. We become experts in one corner of the pyramid (“12th Century Gnostic Chanting, Subsection B”), convinced it holds the key. We run from workshop to workshop, collecting spiritual tools like they’re Pokémon, hoping the next one will finally be the one that makes us feel complete. We’re so busy navigating the pyramid’s sprawling surface that we forget the entire structure is resting on the simple point we started with.
The joke, of course, is that you were never on the pyramid. You are the point. You’ve always been the point. All that other stuff—the beliefs, the practices, the frantic search—is just the elaborate, top-heavy structure you built on top of yourself, seemingly in an effort to find yourself.
So, maybe the path isn’t about climbing higher. Maybe it’s about courageously dismantling the pyramid. It’s about letting go of the complex answers and getting comfortable with the simple, silent reality they were meant to explain. It’s about having a good laugh at the absurdity of building a skyscraper just to find the ground you were already standing on.
You know those pop-up greeting cards — the ones that look flat and innocent until you open them, and suddenly bam!— an entire Taj Mahal made of paper springs out, usually accompanied by glitter and guilt for not buying a simpler one?
That’s sort of what happens every morning when we open our eyes.
After a good night’s sleep (the rare kind where no one from your childhood WhatsApp group appears in your dreams asking for donations), the moment you wake up, a full 3D world unfolds — people, places, problems, pending bills — all popping up like that elaborate paper diorama.
It’s quite the show.
The Great Morning Unfolding
When you open your eyes, you also pop up — the “me” character, complete with opinions, breakfast preferences, and mild existential anxiety. The whole identity kit just unfolds smoothly like it’s been waiting all night under your pillow.
Some people say, “But Nanda, the world doesn’t vanish when you sleep! It’s still there!”
Maybe. But here’s the trick — the very someone making that argument is also part of your conscious field. That clever, philosophical person pointing out your ‘flaw in logic’? Yep, also a pop-up.
It’s like arguing with a character inside the card about whether the card exists.
Flat When Closed
When the pop-up card is closed, nothing is destroyed. The scene is just folded — the palace, the trees, the smiling couple in matching paper sarees and kurtas — all compacted into flatness.
Similarly, when you’re asleep or in deep meditation, the world — with all its drama and color — folds back into stillness. Not gone, but dormant. Like your boss on a Sunday.
And when you “wake up,” the grand production begins again: light, sound, identity, memory — everything leaps up, shouting “Surprise!” like an overeager birthday card.
The Trick of Believability
The funny thing about pop-up cards is how convincing they can be, especially to children (and occasionally to adults before coffee). You forget it’s just paper cleverly cut and glued.
Likewise, consciousness projects such a convincing show that we forget it’s a projection at all. The mind doesn’t just open the card — it hires a full cast, builds sets, adds background music, and gives you the lead role.
The irony? You’re both the audience and the actor.
Liberation as Folding Back
So what is liberation then? It’s not burning the card or running away from it. It’s simply realizing that whether the card is open or closed — nothing truly new appears or disappears.
The essence was never in the paper palace or the pop-up people; it was always in the space that allowed it to unfold.
That awareness — silent, spacious, unbothered — is the real greeting.
Everything else is just… decoration with a bit of glitter.
Closing Thought
Next time you wake up, watch the show unfold. Don’t rush to start the day. Just notice how the world pops up — your name, your room, your phone, your to-do list — all springing to life from nowhere.
And maybe, before diving in, smile and whisper to yourself:
“Ah, there it is — the morning card. Let’s see what scene consciousness is sending me today.”
(Just don’t try to fold your spouse back into the card when they ask you to make coffee. Enlightenment has limits.)
For centuries, sages, saints, and that one uncle at weddings who insists he knows “the truth of everything” have been shouting in unison: shed the ego! According to them, the ego is the villain of the spiritual soap opera, the moustache-twirling bad guy who blocks us from enlightenment. One modern guru even turned it into a neat acronym: E.G.O = Edging God Out.
Sounds convincing, right? But here’s the twist: without the ego, you wouldn’t even know there was a truth to realize in the first place.
The Double Life of Ego
Think of ego like your neighborhood auto driver. On one day, he’s weaving dangerously through traffic, shouting at pedestrians, and playing film songs at full volume—annoying, loud, and best avoided. On another day, he’s the one who drops you exactly where you need to be, gives you change without grumbling, and even warns you about the pothole near the signal. Same guy, two different roles.
Ego works like that. If you identify it with your endless stream of random thoughts—“what’s for dinner?”, “does my WhatsApp DP look fat?”, “why hasn’t Netflix released Season 2 yet?”—then yes, ego is the troublemaker. But if you recognize ego as the quiet sense of “I am” that sits beneath all this noise, suddenly it becomes a signpost pointing straight toward Truth.
The Shopping Mall Analogy
Picture yourself in a shopping mall. Every shop window is blaring for attention: “Buy me! Eat me! Discount 50%!” These are your thoughts. Your ego, depending on how you use it, can do one of two things:
Chase the mannequins—run around from Zara to Apple Store to the food court, completely distracted.
Stand in the middle of the mall—aware that all these shops exist, but not compelled to enter. Just resting in the fact that you are present in the mall, not the stuff inside it.
One leads to exhaustion (and an empty wallet). The other leads to realization.
The Cosmic Stage Show
Think of life as a stage play. The thoughts, emotions, aches, and identities are like actors. The ego can either insist, “I’m the hero, the villain, the comedian, and also the audience—give me all the parts!” Or it can sit back as the stage itself—the screen upon which the entire drama plays.
It’s the same ego, but which way you flip it makes all the difference.
Why We Need Ego to Drop Ego
Here’s the paradox no one tells you: you need ego to even decide to shed ego. Who else is sitting there reading blogs about spirituality at 11:47 p.m. on a Tuesday? The “I” that seeks the Truth is still ego—but it’s the refined version, the ego that points beyond itself, like a GPS that tells you, “Recalculating route to Infinity.”
So maybe the sages weren’t wrong about letting go of ego. But until you use it to realize what’s beyond, dropping it too soon is like throwing away the car keys because you’re frustrated about potholes. The car’s still the way to get home.
Everyday Example: The Alarm Clock
Think of your alarm clock. It’s annoying, intrusive, and loud. You want to smash it against the wall every morning. But without it, you wouldn’t even wake up to know there is a morning. Ego’s the same. It wakes you up to the sense of “I am”—and from there, you get to see that you are more than the random noise of thoughts and identities.
In short: Ego isn’t the villain. It’s the slightly irritating but ultimately helpful character that gets you to the truth. Shed the noisy part, keep the “I am” part, and you might just find that what you thought was blocking God was really pointing to God all along.
Have you ever walked past a giant generator or one of those industrial motors and felt it in your bones before you even heard it? That low, steady hum… reassuring, powerful, unbothered. It’s just there. Not shouting for attention, not needing to prove itself, but quietly powering the whole building.
That, my friend, is exactly what the sense of “aliveness” feels like.
We’re so used to identifying with thoughts—this endless parade of “should I…”, “what if…”, “oh no…”, “why me…”—that we forget there’s something far more fundamental buzzing underneath. A current that’s been running since before you knew your name, before you knew you had knees that creak when you get up too fast, before you had a list of worries that could rival a grocery bill.
The Dynamo Within
Sit still for a moment. Drop the drama. Forget the story of “you.” What’s left? A hum. Not metaphorical, but a very real sense that something is alive in you. Breathing, pulsing, steady as a ceiling fan in a summer power cut (when the current isn’t steady, you really notice!).
From that humming place, you’ll see your thoughts like little fireflies outside a streetlamp—pretty maybe, sometimes irritating, but clearly not the light itself. Even your precious “identity”—that carefully curated name, job title, Instagram bio—sits outside this hum. The aliveness doesn’t care if you’re CEO of the world or Chief Operator of the Remote Control. It just hums.
Aches, Pains, and Invincibility
Here’s the wild part: even the body’s complaints—sore shoulders, stiff back, that knee that behaves like it’s auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack—can be observed from here. You notice them, yes. But they’re not you. They’re like background noise in a café where the espresso machine hisses, chairs scrape, and the couple at the next table is arguing over pineapple on pizza. None of it stops the café from being a café.
And from here, strangely enough, there’s a feeling of invincibility. Not the Marvel superhero kind where you dodge bullets, but a deeper invincibility. Even mortality feels… well, slightly overrated. Because the hum doesn’t really start or stop—it just is.
Everyday Example: The Fridge
Think of your refrigerator. You don’t stand there all day listening for the motor. But if the hum stops, you immediately sense something’s wrong. Suddenly, all the thoughts appear: “Do I need to call the repair guy? Will my ice cream melt? How fast can I eat three tubs of Ben & Jerry’s?”
Our aliveness is like that fridge motor. It’s constant, reliable, and easily overlooked because it’s always there. But notice it, and suddenly the thoughts about melted ice cream (or anything else) are just noise outside that steady hum.
The Easy Part
Here’s the best news: nobody can deny being alive. This isn’t some mystical achievement reserved for monks in Himalayan caves. You’re alive, right now. The hum is running. Tuning into it doesn’t take effort—it takes not effort. Just notice.
The hard part? We forget. The easy part? We can remember again, any time.
So the next time you find yourself spiraling in thought or getting stuck in an ache, pause. Step back. Listen for the dynamo. That quiet, invincible hum of aliveness.
It’s been there all along, and unlike your fridge, you don’t need to call a repair guy.
They say the ostrich buries its head in the sand to avoid danger.
That’s not true, of course — it’s a myth.
The ostrich does no such thing.
But if it did… ah, then we’d have a bird with a very promising career in philosophy.
Because the idea behind the myth — that shutting out the world makes it vanish — is actually a rather elegant pointer to one of the oldest truths in spiritual thought:
Everything you experience exists only in consciousness.
Sand as a Spiritual Tool
Let’s say you really were an ostrich (just for argument’s sake — no offence to your current species). You poke your head into the sand, and suddenly your vision is filled with warm, brown nothingness. No predators. No sky. No grass. No desert. The universe, for all practical purposes, is gone.
You didn’t destroy it — you just stopped perceiving it.
And here’s the big leap: the same is true for your waking life.
The so-called “objective world” is actually stitched together inside your mind. Without the light of consciousness shining on it, the whole grand spectacle collapses into… well, nothing.
The Sleep Experiment You’ve Been Running Every Night
This isn’t just poetic speculation. You prove it to yourself every single night.
When you slip into deep, dreamless sleep — that mysterious stage where there are no mental movies playing — the entire cosmos disappears. Not just your problems, not just your to-do list, but the Himalayas, the Pacific Ocean, the Milky Way — poof.
No you, no neighbour’s dog barking at 2 a.m., no neighbour either.
And yet, you wake up in the morning convinced the world “was there all along.”
But here’s the uncomfortable question: was it? Or is it that the world only exists when you are conscious of it?
Ancient Wisdom and Ostrich Wisdom
Philosophers from Advaita Vedanta to modern-day consciousness researchers have been politely trying to tell us the same thing: the “world” is an appearance in awareness, not an independent reality.
The ostrich myth, despite being zoologically false, has a certain charm here. If putting your head in the sand can make the predators vanish (from your point of view), isn’t that just the avian equivalent of closing your eyes in meditation? The outer scene fades, and you are left with the awareness that contains it all.
Why This Matters (Beyond Bird Comparisons)
If the universe only exists in consciousness, then our frantic attempts to “fix” the outside world before we’re happy might be a bit backwards.
Instead, we could turn inward and examine the one constant — the awareness in which all this appears.
That doesn’t mean you stop paying your bills or feeding the cat (even enlightened beings have to clean the litter box). But it does mean you stop clinging to the idea that the world is a fixed, external “thing” and start seeing it as a living, breathing projection in the cinema of your mind.
So the next time someone mocks the ostrich for “burying its head in the sand,” you might smile and think:
Maybe that ostrich isn’t avoiding reality.
Maybe it’s just contemplating the profound truth that without perception, the world as we know it… simply isn’t there.
And perhaps, like that mythical ostrich, we could all use a moment to put our heads down — not in sand, but in stillness — and watch the universe quietly dissolve back into the infinite awareness from which it came.
If you’ve ever been stuck at a wedding between the nadaswaram/shehnai player and the Western band belting out “Summer of ’69”, you’ve probably asked yourself the deep, philosophical question:
Why on earth are there two ways to write music, and which one should I bother learning before my next rebirth?
So, let’s introduce our two contestants.
Contestant One: The Indian Sargam
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa
Sargam is that genial uncle who says, “Just come, beta, we’ll adjust,” and actually means it. No fuss about where you start—today Sa might be C, tomorrow Sa might be D, and next week it could be on a note only the neighbourhood cat can hear.
Relative Pitch = Chill Vibes If Sa is the first step, the rest of the staircase adjusts itself. It’s musical jugaad at its finest.
Vocal-Friendly No singer has ever said, “Oh no, I can’t sing today because Sa is stuck on 261.63 Hz.” You just shift it, smile, and carry on.
Ornaments Galore Sargam doesn’t just give you notes—it lets you bend them, slide them, and add so much gamaka that even the note doesn’t know where it started.
Think of Sargam as the filter coffee of music—warm, strong, flexible, and doesn’t come with an instruction manual.
Contestant Two: The Western Notation
C D E F G A B C
Now here comes the second cousin—neat haircut, wearing a suit, and carrying a folder. Everything has to be exact. If C is 261.63 Hz, that’s where it stays. If you dare move it, there will be meetings, memos, and possibly a sternly worded email from a conductor.
Absolute Pitch = Discipline It’s the GPS of music—you know exactly where you are at all times.
Visual Map of Sound Those five lines, dots, flags, and squiggles are like an architect’s blueprint. You can rebuild the Taj Mahal in notes if you know how to read them.
International Passport Whether you’re in Madras, Madrid, or Madagascar, this script will be understood. (Except maybe by your local auto driver.)
Western notation is like ordering pizza—fixed recipe, precise toppings, and yes, people will notice if you replace mozzarella with paneer.
Which is More “Scientific”?
Here is where Uncle Rajan wades into the conversation. “All that is fine saar, but which one is more scientific?”
Western notation wins if “scientific” means standardisation and precision—like laboratory coffee: exact temperature, exact brew time, exact bitterness.
But Sargam has its own science—more like grandma’s cooking. She doesn’t measure, yet every dish tastes exactly right. The science is in the relationship between notes, not their fixed coordinates.
Which is Easier and More Practical?
If you’re starting out: Sargam is the easy entry—like learning cricket in your backyard before playing in a stadium.
If you’re handling an orchestra: Western notation keeps the chaos in check. Without it, your 40-piece ensemble might sound like 40 street vendors shouting in different keys.
If you’re doing fusion: Learn both. Sargam keeps your Indian side, Western notation keeps your drummer from walking off stage.
Final Verdict
Neither is “better”—they’re just designed for different musical worlds.
Sargam is like filter coffee at the corner kaapi kadai: flexible, soulful, forgiving.
Western notation is like an espresso from an Italian café: intense, precise, and possibly served with a side of attitude.
If you can master both, you’re musically bilingual. And like knowing how to make both idly and pasta, you’ll never go hungry—either for food or for tunes.
“Ghoonghat ke pat khol re, tohe piya milenge…” “Lift the veil, beloved — and you shall meet your Eternal Lover.”
The audio version of this blog
In a time divided by caste, creed, and the rigid formalities of religion, one voice emerged from the modest lanes of Kashi. It was not the voice of a scholar, nor of a priest, but that of a weaver — Kabir — whose threads joined the sacred and the everyday, the word and the Wordless.
More than 600 years have passed, and yet his voice rings louder than ever, reminding us of a simple, radical truth: the Divine is within you.
The Weaver and the World: Who Was Kabir?
Born in the 15th century — likely to a Muslim family of the Julaha (weaver) caste — Kabir remains an enigma. Legends say he was found as an infant near a pond in Varanasi and raised by a Muslim couple. Others say he was initiated by the Hindu saint Ramananda. Kabir himself defied labels, calling neither mosque nor temple his home. His religion? Love.
He made his living weaving cloth, but his true vocation was to weave unity across the fragmented landscape of Indian society. Through verses that were sharp, wise, and filled with mystical longing, Kabir sang not about a distant God, but about the Beloved who dwells within the breath.
🎧 Featured Song: “Ghoonghat ke Pat Khol Re” – A Cry of Awakening
In this iconic verse, Kabir speaks directly to the seeker. He says:
“The veil is not on your face, but on your mind. Remove it — and you will see what has always been.”
The word “ghoonghat” refers to the traditional veil worn by women in northern India. But in Kabir’s poetry, it becomes a symbol — of illusion (maya), of ignorance, of the false belief that the Divine is outside us.
🕊️ Kabir’s Core Teachings: Simple, but Not Easy
1. God Has No Religion
Kabir rejected the labels of Hindu and Muslim, choosing instead to follow sahaj path — the path of naturalness and simplicity.
“Allah and Ram are different words, but the One behind them is the same.”
2. Ritual Without Love Is Empty
He poked fun at rituals if they lacked bhakti — heartfelt devotion.
“You went to the temple, rang the bell. But did you ring the bell of your own soul?”
3. The Guru Is the Boat Across the Ocean
Kabir revered the Satguru — the true teacher — as one who can destroy illusion and show the path inward.
“The Guru is greater than God, for he shows you the path to the Divine within.”
4. Live Fully Awake
To Kabir, the real sin was spiritual sleep — not living consciously.
“Kabir soya kya kare, jo jagay so mare. Jo mare so ubrejay, jaga hua kya dare?”
“Why sleep through life? The awakened never fear death.”
🌍 Why Kabir Matters Today
He offers direct experience over dogma.
He affirms that awakening is possible right now.
His poetry is alive across traditions: sung by Sufis, Bhaktas, Bauls, and yogis.
Kabir is not a historical figure to be studied — he is a fire to be caught.
❤️ Kabir’s Love: Fierce, Fiery, and Free
Kabir’s relationship with the Divine was intimate, raw, and immediate. He didn’t seek salvation — he sought the Beloved, not in another world, but in every breath.
“Moko kahan dhoonde re bande, Main to tere paas mein…” “Where are you searching for Me, dear one? I am right next to you. In you.”
🪔 Conclusion: Lift the Veil
To read Kabir is to be challenged. To sing Kabir is to be cleansed. To live Kabir is to tear away the veil and meet the Beloved — not in heaven, but in silence, in song, in surrender.
So once more, close your eyes. Listen:
May Kabir’s voice echo within your soul — until the veil lifts, and the One is seen.
Look at a tree. Any tree. Don’t label it. Don’t call it beautiful, ugly, or a neem tree near uncle’s house. Just… see it.
You’ll notice something strange.
For a fleeting second, there’s only tree. Not your memory of a tree, not your opinion of it, not even you looking at it. Just… tree.
Now imagine living like that, always. That, my friend, is what some call liberation.
The Problem with “Me” (And All Its Cousins)
Your mind is like a chatty radio host who won’t take a breath.
“I like this.”
“I hate that.”
“This reminds me of that summer in Goa.”
“This cow looks tired.”
But who’s this “I”?
J. Krishnamurti once said:
“The observer is the observed.”
It’s not a riddle. It means when you say, “I am anxious,” you’ve created a false duality. In truth, there’s just anxiety—no owner required. The moment you label it as yours, you’ve claimed it like a Netflix account.
Liberation Isn’t a Mountaintop, It’s a Mute Button
Non-duality teachers say it beautifully.
Rupert Spira reminds us:
“The belief in a separate self is like imagining a wave is separate from the ocean.”
Mooji says, with a grin:
“Don’t take your thoughts so seriously. They’re not paying rent.”
When we drop our constant labeling—our me, mine, my—we return to what just is.
A cow grazing becomes just… cow. Not a “lazy cow” or “my cow.” Just cow. And in that seeing, you’re free.
A Little Practice (But Not a Method, Please)
Krishnamurti hated methods. But here’s a loose suggestion:
Just observe.
Don’t label.
Don’t claim.
Don’t objectify.
It’s not about doing something. It’s about stopping the habit of always being someone.
In Conclusion: Leave Your “I.D.” at the Door
You don’t have to meditate in the Himalayas or chant your way to freedom.
Hey everyone, great hanging out with you all in the comments on yesterday’s post! It seems like the idea of our life resonated with quite a few of you. Our body, roles, and even our thoughts are kinda like a temporary house we inhabit. We talked about keeping a “chill take” on it all. We shouldn’t get too attached to the structure or the furniture. It’s all part of the journey.
But that naturally leads to the next big question, doesn’t it? If all that stuff is the “house”… then who is the ‘I’ that’s actually living inside it? Who is experiencing the leaky faucets, the sunny rooms, the whole deal?
Today, let’s explore that resident. Here’s a heads-up. We will share some cool old ideas from ancient wisdom. These will help us unpack it. Stay chill, though – it’s all part of the adventure!
Meet the Busy ‘Resident Manager’ (Ahamkara)
Think about who runs the show in your “house” day-to-day. There’s this constant sense of ‘me’ that seems to be in charge, right? It worries about upkeep, feels proud of the decor, gets annoyed when things aren’t perfect. Ancient Indian thought has a name for this busy manager: अहंकार (Ahamkara).
अहंकार (Ahamkara): Remember this one? We touched on it briefly. It literally means the “I-maker.” It’s the role within us. It creates the strong feeling of being a separate individual. It makes us feel like the one who owns the house and everything linked to it.
This Ahamkara isn’t just aware that the house exists. It identifies as the house manager. Sometimes it even thinks it is the house! It’s the voice saying:
“This is MY room!” (My opinion, my beliefs)
“Don’t scratch MY floors!” (My feelings got hurt)
“Look at MY beautiful garden!” (My accomplishments, my status)
“I need to fix that leaky faucet!” (My problems, my worries)
It’s the part of us that feels fundamentally separate and often quite stressed about managing this whole “house” situation.
Asking the Landlord (Koham?)
But is this busy, often stressed-out resident manager the actual owner of the property? Or just… the manager? This is where a fascinating practice comes in, highlighted by the sage Sri Ramana Maharshi. He suggested a change in approach. Instead of just listening to the manager’s constant chatter and anxieties, we should try to find the real source. We should seek the ultimate “landlord” by asking: “Who Am I?“
In Sanskrit: कोऽहम्? (Koham?).
कोऽहम्? (Koham?): “Who Am I?”
This isn’t about the manager giving their job title (“I am the manager,” “I am a parent,” “I am successful”). It’s about tracing that ‘I’ feeling itself back to its origin. When the manager (Ahamkara) starts freaking out – “I am overwhelmed!” “I need this!” “I hate that noise!” – the practice is to gently inquire inwardly: “Okay, who is this ‘I’ that’s feeling overwhelmed? Where does this ‘I’ actually come from?”
Ramana suggested this inquiry is incredibly powerful. Why? Because it bypasses the manager and looks for the silent owner. Finding that source, he said, is the key to real peace. It stands in contrast to the constant low-grade stress of just managing the house. He stated something profound: “The inquiry ‘Who am I?’ is the principal means to the removal of all misery and the attainment of the supreme bliss.”
Hook: Imagine being capable of quieting the frantic manager by simply looking for the calm, underlying owner! What happens if we stop taking the manager’s word for everything and investigate the source?
All This “My House, My Stuff” Stress
Let’s be real, being the resident manager (Ahamkara) is stressful! Much of our daily anxiety comes from clinging to the “house.” It also comes from defending everything we’ve labeled “mine” inside it.
Worrying about the house’s appearance (“my reputation,” “my image”).
Getting angry when someone parks in “my driveway” or disrespects “my space.”
Feeling anxious about the house’s future (“my job security,” “my health,” “my retirement”).
Comparing “my house” to the neighbor’s bigger, fancier one.
Sound familiar? The Ahamkara is hard at work. It identifies completely with the house and its contents. It is convinced that its own well-being depends entirely on the state of the property.
Hook: Think about your day so far. Whether you are right here in your town or somewhere else, think about the energy you use. You are managing aspects of “your house.” Consider on how much you defend or worry about the things you call “mine.”
When the Manager Sleeps & The Empty House (Awareness/Atman)
Now, here’s where it gets really interesting, connecting back to our “chill take” from yesterday. How permanent, how solid, is this resident manager (Ahamkara)?
Consider deep, dreamless sleep. The house (your body) is still there, resting. But where did the manager go? That distinct feeling of “I am managing this life” completely vanishes. Poof! The office is empty. This shows the Ahamkara needs certain conditions – like the waking state or even a dream state – to function.
And dreams? The manager rebuilds a whole dream house and runs around managing that! This highlights that the manager is more like a role being played than a permanent fixture.
If the manager can just disappear every night, they can’t be the fundamental reality, right? They are transient, dependent. And what about the house itself (the body)? Does a brick know it’s a brick? Does the house feel its own existence? No. Like we said yesterday, the house is just the structure. It needs something else to be known, to be experienced.
So, if the manager comes and goes, and the house itself is just structure, what is constant?
It seems to be awareness itself. The silent, unchanging space in which the house exists. The fundamental knowing that perceives the house, the manager, the thoughts, the feelings, everything. This ever-present, underlying reality, the true Self, has a name in Sanskrit: आत्मन् (Atman).
आत्मन् (Atman): The Self (with a capital S). Think of it as the silent, true owner of the property. It is like the very ground and space the house is built upon. It is pure, witnessing consciousness.
The nature of this Atman, this fundamental reality, is often described as सच्चिदानन्द (Sat-Chit-Ananda).
सच्चिदानन्द (Sat-Chit-Ananda): Existence-Consciousness-Bliss. It suggests that the very nature of this underlying awareness or space is pure being. It is pure knowing. It embodies inherent, causeless peace or joy.
Who Feels the Drafts and Sunshine? (Feelings)
Okay, so if we are fundamentally this peaceful awareness (Atman), why do we feel bothered by drafts (pain, sadness) or delighted by sunshine (pleasure, joy) in the house?
Maybe it happens like this: Awareness (Atman, the space/owner) perceives sensations related to the house (a cold draft, warm sunshine). The busy resident manager (Ahamkara) immediately rushes over, identifies with the sensation, and declares, “I am cold!” or “I love this sunny spot!” It claims ownership of the experience happening within the aware space via the house’s condition.
This reframes our feelings. They aren’t necessarily who we are. They are like weather conditions affecting the house. The underlying awareness (Atman) perceives them. Then, the temporary manager (Ahamkara) loudly claims and reacts to them.
Seeing this helps us follow Ramana’s advice: “There is no need to get rid of the wrong ‘I’ [Ahamkara/manager]. All that is required is to find out the source of the ‘I’ and abide in it.” We move away from reacting frantically like the manager. Instead, we rest as the calm, aware space or owner that perceives everything.
Living Lighter in the House
So, where does this leave us? Yesterday, we talked about the house. Today, we’ve explored the difference between the busy, stressed manager (Ahamkara) who thinks they are the house. The silent, aware space/owner (Atman) is our true foundation.
The manager comes and goes. Its attachment to “my house, my stuff” causes stress. But the underlying awareness is constant, peaceful by nature. Practices like asking “Who Am I?” help us see past the manager and connect with that deeper reality.
This doesn’t mean we neglect the house! We still take care of our bodies, our lives, our responsibilities. But we can do it with a lighter touch, with that “chill take” we talked about. We know we are fundamentally the spacious awareness. We are not just the temporary house or its frantic manager. These insights allow us to navigate the inevitable leaks. They help us enjoy the sunshine with more ease and a lot more peace.
It’s an ongoing exploration, not a final answer. What does this “resident manager” vs. “silent owner” idea spark for you? Does it change how you view the ‘I’ living in your ‘house’? Share your thoughts below – always great to learn together!
Picture this: you’re standing in the middle of nowhere, just wide-open land stretching out forever. There’s mountains in the distance, a big ol’ sky above, and the ground under your feet. Birds are flapping around up high. Ants are doing their thing on the dirt. There’s some grass and bushes sprinkled around. It’s raw, it’s real, it’s just… there. So, you decide to build a house. You slap up four walls, fence off a chunk of this endless land, and call it yours. Inside, you add more walls—rooms, spaces, your own little world. Boom, it feels like your spot now, separate from all that wild stuff outside.
But here’s the thing about “owning” something—you get attached. Those birds? Their chirping starts to bug you. The ants? Suddenly they’re invaders creeping into your space. You shoo them out. Then, you lock the doors. Finally, you turn your house into a fortress to keep the outside world at bay.
Then one night, a massive thunderstorm rolls through. It’s loud, it’s scary, and it’s shaking your house like it’s made of toothpicks. You start freaking out, thinking, “What if this storm wrecks everything? My house, my space, my whole vibe—gone!” In that panic, you start imagining some big, powerful force that can save you. You call it God, give it a name, maybe even a face. You start tossing out prayers or offerings, like you’re paying for some cosmic insurance to keep your house standing.
Along comes someone else, claiming they’ve got the inside scoop on this God thing. They’re like, “Nah, you’re doing it wrong. I’m tighter with the Big Guy, so listen to me.” You are desperate to keep your house safe. You start trying to impress this person. You hope they’ll put in a good word for you.
But then another storm hits—bigger, badder. Your walls come crashing down, your rooms are toast, and you’re back standing in that same wide-open land. The birds are still flying, the ants are still marching, the grass is still swaying. It’s like nothing changed, but you feel different. Part of you recalls this entire cycle. It feels like déjà vu when you try to hold onto something that was never really yours.
And that’s when you start wondering: Was that space ever mine? Were those walls just a trick I played on myself? This is where things get kinda wild, because this whole setup is like a big metaphor for who we are.
Your House Is Your Body, the Land Is Your Mind
Think of the house as your body, the thing you’re walking around in every day. You build up this idea of “me”—your personality, your likes, your fears, your story. It’s like putting up walls to carve out a little “you” from the giant, endless consciousness that’s all around. Those walls are your skin, your thoughts, your beliefs, all the stuff that makes you feel like a separate person. Inside, you’ve got rooms—your job, your relationships, your dreams, all neatly organized.
The birds and ants? Those are the random thoughts, feelings, or distractions that pop up. They’re only annoying when you’re super attached to keeping your “house” just the way you like it. In the big picture, those thoughts and feelings are just part of the flow. They are like birds in the sky or ants on the ground.
The thunderstorm? That’s life’s way of reminding you nothing lasts forever—change, loss, even death. It shakes up your house, your body, your whole sense of “me.” Scared of losing it all, you turn to something bigger, like God, hoping it’ll keep you safe. You pray, you do rituals, whatever feels right. Then someone comes along saying they’ve got a direct line to that higher power. You follow them, thinking they’ve got the key to keeping your house standing.
But when the storm finally wipes it all out, you’re back in that wide-open land—that big, limitless consciousness. Your body is gone, your “me” fade, but that awareness, that land? It’s still there. It was never yours to own because, guess what? It’s what you are.
The Loop We Keep Living
This whole story is like a loop we’ve been running for ages. We build our houses—our bodies, our identities, our communities, our beliefs—trying to grab a piece of something infinite. We stress about keeping it safe. We pray to powers we hope will protect us. We listen to people who claim they’ve got the answers. But storms always come, and they always take down what we built.
That little memory you feel in the story? That’s your gut telling you this loop doesn’t have to keep going. You start asking: Was it ever mine? Is this “me” I’m so attached to even real? Is that big, endless consciousness something I’m just floating in, or is it actually me?
That’s when things start to shift. You realize the house isn’t a cage—it’s just a temporary setup, a way to experience this wild, infinite land. Your body, your “me,” your walls—they’re tools for living, not for owning. The birds, the ants, the storms? They’re not against you—they’re part of the same big picture you’re in.
Living Free and Easy
Living without clinging to the walls means chilling out in the big, open land without trying to fence it off. It’s about seeing your house—your body, your life—as this cool, temporary thing that’s awesome while it lasts. Let the birds chirp, let the ants march, let the storms roll through. They’re all part of you, like your thoughts and feelings.
You don’t have to ditch the house. Build it, love it, make it yours. Just don’t grip it so tight. When the storm comes, let it do its thing. When the walls fall, no big deal. You’re not just the house—you’re the land, the sky, the mountains, the whole dang scene.
And when you get that, you don’t need a God to save you. You don’t need some guru to show you the way. It’s just you and this big, beautiful, endless vibe—and you’re already right at home.
Nalla Madras 