Author: Nandakumar Nayar

My name is Nandakumar Nayar, but you can call me Nanda, Nandu, or Nandan, depending on who you’re talking to.  I studied Chemistry in college and ended up working in the airline and tourism industry. Back in school, I was part of a band that played a mix of Carpenters, Beatles, Eagles, CCR, Jethro Tull, and Indian popular music.  I’m a self-taught guitarist and keyboardist, but I also trained in vocal Indian classical music.  I’ve worn many hats over the years - making short films, composing music, podcasting, writing blogs, and more.  I’ve earned the title of ‘Jack of All Trades, but Master of None,’ but I often end up being better than a master of one. I’m not one to hide my accomplishments, so you can probably guess that modesty isn’t my middle name.

Life is a Time-Lapse: Why You Are the Camera, Not the Movie

The Stationary Camera: Why Time Doesn’t Exist (And Einstein Agrees with the Rishis)

You know that feeling when you look at a time-lapse video of the night sky?

The stars are streaking across the heavens, the Milky Way is spinning like a giant cosmic pinwheel, and the earth seems to be on a wild carousel ride. But the camera? The camera sits there—rock solid, unmoving, silently watching the show.

We usually think we are the ones moving through time, getting older, rushing to meetings, and chasing deadlines. But what if we’ve got it backwards?

What if Time doesn’t exist? What if we are the stationary camera, and it’s the environment that is whizzing past us?

This isn’t just a late-night “hostel terrace” theory. It’s a place where modern physics and ancient Vedanta decide to have a cup of filter coffee together.

The Photographer’s Philosophy

Let’s look at this “Stationary Camera” theory.

In a time-lapse, two things are happening:

  1. The Changing: The stars, the clouds, the rotation of the earth.
  2. The Changeless: The camera lens that captures it all.

If the camera started moving around, the video would be a blurry mess. The only reason we see the movement of the stars is because the observer is still.

Now, apply this to your life. Your body changes (grey hairs appear, knees creak). Your mind changes (happy today, annoyed at the traffic tomorrow). The world changes (new governments, new iPhones).

But YOU—the sense of “I am”—does that ever change? The “I” that felt the sun on your face at age five is the exact same “I” reading this blog right now.

You are the camera. The world is the Milky Way.

“But Saar, What About Science?”

I can hear the skeptics (and the physics majors) clearing their throats. “Nanda, time is real! Entropy! The Second Law of Thermodynamics! You can’t un-break an egg!”

Fair point. But here is where it gets interesting.

Einstein enters the chat.
In the old Newtonian days, we thought time was a steady river flowing at one speed for everyone. Then Einstein came along with Relativity and proved that time is actually bendy. It slows down if you move fast; it warps near black holes.

When his best friend died, Einstein wrote a letter to the family saying:

“The distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.”

Science is basically admitting that “Time” isn’t the solid container we think it is. It’s an illusion. Or, as we call it back home, Maya.

The Vedantic Upgrade: Drg-Drishya-Viveka

Our ancient rishis didn’t have DSLRs, but they had this exact same theory. They called it Drg-Drishya-Viveka (The discrimination between the Seer and the Seen).

They would say your Camera theory is perfect, with one major “Pro Mode” upgrade.

In your analogy, you might think:

  • Camera = My Mind
  • Milky Way = The World

Vedanta says: Not quite.

If a bug crawls across the camera lens, the camera sees it. If the lens gets foggy, the camera sees the fog.
Your thoughts, memories, and emotions are like that bug or that fog. They are constantly moving. They come and go.

So, the Mind isn’t the Camera. The Mind is part of the movie!

The real Camera is the Sakshi (Witness Consciousness). It watches the world move, and it watches the mind think about the world moving. It is the Sat-Chit-Ananda—the existence that never moves, never sleeps, and never changes.

The Final Verdict

So, are there holes in this theory? Only if you try to make the “Camera” into your ego. Your ego is definitely moving (and usually running late).

But the real You? You are stationary in eternity.

  • Science studies the movie (the changing particles, the biology, the entropy).
  • Spirituality studies the Camera (the Observer).

You don’t have to choose between them. You can enjoy the science of the stars while resting in the stillness of the Self.

Try this today:
Next time you are stuck in a chaotic situation—maybe traffic on Mount Road or a heated meeting—just pause. Be the camera. Let the cars and the shouting be the Milky Way spinning around you.

You might find that while the world is noisy, the Witness is silent.

The Trap of Sensory Pleasures: How to Escape

This or that?

You know the feeling.

It’s 11:30 PM. You are doom-scrolling on Amazon, and suddenly, you see it. A noise-canceling headphone that promises to silence not just the traffic outside, but arguably your own thoughts. Or maybe it’s Saturday night, and that second slice of chocolate truffle cake is looking at you with the intensity of a long-lost lover.

In that moment, a powerful wave rises. The ancient texts call it Kama (desire), but let’s just call it what it is: The Itch.

The Itch says, “If I get this, I will be happy.”

And you know what? It’s not entirely lying. You will be happy. For about fourteen minutes. Maybe twenty if the cake is really good. But then? The happiness evaporates, leaving you exactly where you were, perhaps with just a slightly lighter wallet or a heavier stomach.

This is the trap of the sensory world. It sells us rental happiness and charges us ownership prices.

But there is a little game you can play to hack this system. I call it “This or That.”

The Two Menus

Imagine life is a restaurant with only two items on the menu.

Item 1: “This”

  • Ingredients: Sensory pleasures, shopping sprees, that extra glass of wine, the dopamine hit of a new gadget.
  • Guarantee: Instant gratification.
  • Side Effects: Transient. It fades quickly, leaving a vacuum that demands to be filled again. It is the hamster wheel of happiness.

Item 2: “That”

  • Ingredients: Satchitananda (Existence-Consciousness-Bliss).
  • Guarantee: Eternal peace. A subtle, unshakeable joy that doesn’t depend on what is in your driveway or your refrigerator.
  • Side Effects: A sense of invincibility. The realization that you are already full.

How to Play the Game

The game is deceptively simple. The moment a craving arises—whether it’s for a new car, a harsh retort to a colleague, or just mindless consumption—you pause.

Take a breath. Create a tiny gap between the urge and the action. And in that gap, ask yourself:

“Do I want This… or That?”

Do I want the fleeting thrill of the object (“This”)?
Or do I want the eternal stability of my own Self (“That”)?

When you choose “This,” you are choosing to be a beggar, asking the world to drop a coin of happiness into your bowl.
When you choose “That,” you remember you are the Emperor.

The “That” is Always There

Here is the secret the marketing departments don’t want you to know: The peace you are looking for in the object is actually what remains when the wanting of the object drops.

When you finally buy that gadget, you feel a moment of relief. You think the gadget gave you joy. It didn’t! The gadget simply removed the craving for a moment, revealing the natural joy (Satchitananda) that was already there underneath.

So why take the detour through the shopping mall? Go straight to the source.

The Practice

Next time the urge hits, catch it mid-air.

  • Craving for approval? Ask: This (someone else’s opinion) or That (my own inner fullness)?
  • Craving for distraction? Ask: This (social media noise) or That (the silence of being)?

You might still choose the cake. And that’s fine! We aren’t trying to be monks overnight. But simply asking the question breaks the trance. It reminds you that you have a choice.

You are standing at the crossroads of the momentary and the eternal fifty times a day.

So, my friend… This or That?

Spirituality’s Biggest Pyramid Scheme 

The Inverted Pyramid Scheme of Enlightenment

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.

Pop-Up Cards and Liberation: A Morning Metaphor for Reality

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.)

The Ego: Friend, Foe, or Just Misunderstood?

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:

  1. Chase the mannequins—run around from Zara to Apple Store to the food court, completely distracted.
  2. 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.

How to Tune Into Your Inner Steady Hum

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.

The Ostrich, the Sand, and the Secret of the Universe

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.

Sa Re Ga Ma vs C D E F G – The Fun Guide to Indian Sargam and Western Notation

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.

Kabir: The Weaver of the Infinite, and the Song of the Inner Beloved

“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.

How Dropping “Me” Can Set You Free (and Why Cows Don’t Care About Your Opinions)

Let’s start with a simple experiment.

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.

Just stop owning everything.

Stop saying “my thoughts,” “my anger,” “my truth.” Just notice—without naming.

Krishnamurti again, for the win:

“To understand what is, there must be no condemnation of what is.”

Including yourself.

And if you see a cow today—resist the urge to say moo.