Tag: mental-health

Veedu Varai Uravu, JFK Terminal 4, and the Long Flight Home

Or: why life is basically an international holiday, and everyone eventually stops walking with you at a different gate.

There is a Kannadasan song that has been quietly following me around for about fifty years, like a well-behaved dog that occasionally sits on your foot to remind you it exists. You know the one — Veedu Varai Uravu, from Paadha Kaanikkai, TMS in that impossibly grave voice, Viswanathan–Ramamoorthy leaving space around every syllable the way a good chef leaves space around a piece of fish on the plate.

Four lines. That’s all. Kannadasan didn’t need eight.

Veedu varai uravu
Veedhi varai manaivi
Kaadu varai pillai
Kadaisi varai yaaro?

Relatives come as far as the house. The wife comes as far as the street. The children come as far as the cemetery. And then — that beautiful, slightly terrifying question mark — who comes with you all the way to the end?

Kannadasan, being Kannadasan, refuses to answer. He just leaves you sitting there with your coffee going cold.

I have been thinking about this song again, but from a very unpoetic angle, because I am a modern man and I fly Economy.

Life is a return trip you didn’t quite plan

Here is the thought that will not leave me alone.

Life, from the moment we arrive to the moment we leave, is structured exactly like an international holiday. Not the yoga-retreat kind. The messy kind. The kind where somebody forgets the adapter and somebody else insists on packing three kilos of murukku (a crunchy South Indian snack twisted out of rice and urad dal flour and deep-fried into little edible spirals — the kind of thing aunties smuggle across international borders in Tupperware) “just in case.”

Consider the arrival.

You land. The plane doors open. You are wheeled or carried out — because let us be honest, nobody walks off their first flight — and there, waiting at the gate, is your entire welcoming committee. In this case, the “airport” is a hospital, the “arrivals lounge” is a delivery room, and the welcoming committee wears surgical masks and holds you upside down until you announce yourself with a scream.

The doctor is the immigration officer. (“Papers, please. Weight, length, APGAR score.”)
The nurse is the ground staff. (“Sir, madam, this way to baggage claim, which is you.”)
The parents are the family who drove three hours to pick you up and are now weeping in the parking lot for reasons neither of you fully understand yet.

They take you home. They make sure you are comfortable. Someone puts a blanket on you that is objectively too warm. Someone else insists you eat something. This is the veedu varai uravu phase, and it lasts, if you are lucky, about eighty years.

The middle of the holiday, or: why we fight over the AC remote

Now — anyone who has ever been on a family holiday knows that the middle of the trip is where things go interesting.

Day one, everyone is delightful. “Shall we all have dosa?” (a thin, crisp fermented rice-and-lentil crepe; the South Indian answer to the pancake, only with more opinions attached to it.) “Yes, dosa is a wonderful idea.” “You take the window seat, no no you take it.”

Day four, someone is not speaking to someone else because of a comment made at breakfast about the correct way to eat curd rice (thayir sadam — cooked rice mixed with yogurt, tempered with mustard seeds and curry leaves; simultaneously the most comforting food on earth and the most fiercely litigated recipe in every South Indian household). Day six, there is a full diplomatic incident about who booked which taxi. By day nine, two people are communicating exclusively through a third person, who is themselves not on speaking terms with a fourth.

This is life. This is the entire arc between the veedu and the kaadu. Ego, opinions, small betrayals, big betrayals, the terrible things we say because we are tired and it is 41 degrees and the kulfi (the Indian ice cream cousin — denser, chewier, usually flavoured with cardamom, pistachio, or mango, and constitutionally incapable of surviving an Indian afternoon) has melted. And underneath it all, the strange and slightly embarrassing fact that we love these people so much we cannot quite bear it, which is precisely why we are fighting with them.

You never fight this hard with strangers. Have you noticed? Nobody has ever had a shouting match with the person selling coconuts on the beach. We reserve our finest performances for the people we plan to weep for.

The departure gate

And then the holiday ends.

You know this part. Somebody has to catch the flight back. The luggage is heavier than it was on the way in — it always is; this is one of the immutable laws of the universe, along with entropy and the fact that any samosa (a fried triangular pastry stuffed with spiced potatoes and peas — the samosa is to India what the sandwich is to England, except with better structural engineering) you drop will land chutney-side down.

Some people come to see you off at the door of the house — veedu varai. They stand in the driveway. They wave. They are already thinking about lunch.

A smaller, more loyal contingent comes to the street — veedhi varai (veedhi = street, in Tamil). They help you load the bags. They make jokes to cover the fact that they are sad. They insist you text when you land.

An even smaller, even more loyal contingent comes all the way to the airport — kaadu varai, in Kannadasan’s more austere vocabulary (kaadu literally means forest or wilderness, and in this context, the cremation ground — the last stop before there is no more road). They stand at the departure gate, that peculiar liminal space where you are neither here nor there, neither with them nor without them, and they hug you one more time than is strictly necessary. And you turn around and walk toward the security line, and they wave, and you wave back, and then — this is the part nobody warns you about — you have to stop waving and just walk.

And then it’s just you, your carry-on, and the long line to the metal detector.

The flight itself

Now, friend, here is where the song and the airline seat conspire against you.

You are in seat 34K. The person next to you is already asleep with their mouth open. The screen in front of you offers you three action movies, one romantic comedy, and a documentary about penguins that you know from experience will make you cry. You choose none of them.

Because at some point over the Atlantic — usually around hour four, when the lights have dimmed and the cabin has taken on that submarine hush — the ruminating begins.

Why did I say that to her at breakfast on day four?
What was the actual point of that argument about the taxi?
He was only trying to help. I made it about my ego. Why?
She said something kind and I heard it as criticism. Why?
I had eighty years. I spent forty minutes of it not speaking to my own brother because of a chair.

You cannot fight with anyone at 37,000 feet. There is nobody to fight with. There is only you, a small plastic cup of water, and a slowly dawning suspicion that most of what you took so seriously down there was — how does one put this politely — not that serious.

The plane is an accidental confessional. The tray table is an altar. The seatbelt sign is a mild but persistent guru: please remain seated. Please, please, remain seated.

The French have a phrase — l’esprit de l’escalier — the wit of the staircase. The perfect reply you think of only after you’ve left the party. The Tamil equivalent is even better and does not have a name: the wisdom of the return flight. The clarity you find only after the door has closed and the cabin has been pressurised and it is far, far too late to go back and un-say the thing.

Kadaisi varai yaaro?

And then Kannadasan’s question, which has been waiting patiently in the overhead bin the whole time, gently opens.

Who comes with you all the way to the end?

The relatives came as far as the house. The wife came as far as the street. The children came as far as the cemetery — or, if you prefer the modern edit, as far as the drop-off lane at Terminal 4, where they were shooed away by a very serious man in a fluorescent vest.

But someone is on the plane with you. That is the strange bit. That is the bit Kannadasan leaves as a question mark because he is too much of a poet to ruin it with an answer.

Pattinathar, who was less of a diplomat, said it outright a thousand years ago: what travels with you is what you did. The paavam and the punniyam (paavam = sin, the debits; punniyam = merit, the credits; between them, the only luggage the universe actually lets you check in). The way you treated the person at the coconut stall. Whether you let go of the taxi argument. Whether you called your brother back after the chair incident. Whether you were, on balance, kind — not to the people you were trying to impress, but to the people you had already stopped bothering to impress, which is the only real test.

The rishis would put it more mysteriously and say the witness in seat 34K is the same witness who was there in the delivery room, watching the whole holiday from the beginning, unbothered by the AC remote, uninvolved in the curd rice debate, present through every fight and every reconciliation, and — here is the punchline — not actually going anywhere at all.

The plane lands somewhere. The witness stays.

So what does one do on day four?

I don’t know. I really don’t. I am, as I have confessed elsewhere on this blog, an amateur at all of this. But here is what the return flight has been quietly whispering to me lately, and I offer it in the spirit of one economy-class passenger to another:

The next time somebody at breakfast says the thing about the curd rice — pause for exactly one breath before you answer. That is all. One breath. The length of a soham, if you like (soham — the natural sound of the breath itself: sa on the inhale, ham on the exhale; the mantra you’ve apparently been chanting since the delivery room without ever signing up for it). In that gap, you can sometimes hear the hum of the return flight already. You can sometimes see, faintly, how this scene will look at hour four over the Atlantic. And nine times out of ten, you will choose the reply of the person you’ll be at 37,000 feet — not the person you are at the breakfast table.

That is not enlightenment. That is just packing lighter.

Because veedu varai uravu is true. The relatives really do stop at the house. The wife really does stop at the street. The children really do stop at the cemetery. And that is fine. That is how holidays end. That is how they were always going to end. There was never a version of the trip where everyone got on the plane with you.

But the samosas you shared, the arguments you dropped, the person you were kind to when nobody was watching — those, apparently, come along as carry-on.

And they don’t count against your baggage allowance.

Kadaisi varai yaaro? Perhaps you already know. Perhaps you’ve always known. Drop it in the comments, or better yet, drop it in the driveway before the taxi arrives.

Shree Matre Namaha. (Salutations to the Divine Mother — the closing bow, in case She is the one in seat 34J.)

#NallaMadras #VeeduVaraiUravu #Kannadasan #TamilSongs #Pattinathar #IndianPhilosophy #NonDuality #Advaita #Kirtan #Devotional #TamilLiterature #Vairagya #LifeAndDeath #Impermanence #Spirituality #SouthIndian #Rumination #MindfulLiving #WitnessConsciousness #Soham

You didn’t hire the heart!

You Didn’t Hire the Digestion Department: On Ramana Maharishi and the Supreme Doer

The 3 AM Regret Committee

You know how it works.

It’s somewhere between 2:47 and 3:15 AM, and your brain, which had absolutely nothing useful to say during the actual meeting, has suddenly convened an emergency session. The agenda? Every bad decision you have ever made. The tone? Prosecutorial. The mercy on offer? None.

“Remember 2009? That thing you said to Ramesh? Remember the job you didn’t take? The relationship you didn’t value enough? That investment you made in what turned out to be the financial equivalent of a paper boat in the monsoon?”

And so the mind replays, rewinds, and re-examines, as if a 47th viewing of the blunder might somehow change the ending.

We’ve all been there. If you haven’t, please write a separate blog, because clearly you are an entirely different species.

Enter the Sage. No PowerPoint Required.

A devotee once came to Bhagavan Ramana Maharishi at Arunachala with exactly this question – not at 3 AM necessarily, but with the same existential heaviness. The weight of past deeds. The crushing burden of karmic ledgers that seem to carry interest at rates that would embarrass a credit card company.

“Bhagavan,” the devotee essentially asked, “how do I get out from under the effects of the bad things I have done?”

Now, another teacher might have assigned a few hundred rounds of a mantra, or perhaps a month-long diet of boiled vegetables and noble thoughts. Ramana’s answer was something far simpler – and, if you sit with it, far more earth-shaking.

He said, in effect: Look. Right now, are you digesting your lunch?

The Stomach Has Better Things to Do Than Take Your Opinions

Here is the miracle that happens every single day that we completely ignore.

You eat your idly-sambar. Perhaps some rice in the afternoon. Maybe, if you are having a particularly adventurous evening, some pasta that you told yourself was “light.” And then – and this is the remarkable part – you forget about it entirely.

You don’t sit there holding a clipboard, managing the acid levels, dispatching enzymes, supervising the peristaltic movement of your intestines. You don’t schedule a 4 PM reminder saying, “Check on protein absorption in the small intestine.” You just… live your life.

Meanwhile, an incredibly complex, unimaginably precise operation is happening inside you. Every minute. Every second. And you are not running it.

Your heart beats. Not because you remembered. Not because you set it up in a settings menu somewhere. It just beats – about 100,000 times a day – without a single conscious instruction from you. Your lungs breathe. Your liver quietly does something extraordinary with seventeen different toxins from last Tuesday. Your immune system, right now, is probably handling something that would have hospitalised you if it had waited for you to notice it.

You are hosting an operation more complex than ISRO’s mission control, and you are completely unaware of it.

And Ramana’s point was this: Who do you think is running that?

The Invisible CEO

Think of your body as a massive corporation. Thousands of departments, millions of processes, an unimaginably intricate supply chain running 24/7 without a single holiday or a “we are experiencing high volume, please wait” message.

Now – who is the CEO?

It certainly isn’t your conscious mind. Your conscious mind is that enthusiastic but slightly clueless intern who sits in the front office, takes all the credit, and panics when the WiFi goes down. The real operations are being managed by something far more capable, far more silent, and far more permanent.

The ancient texts call it Ishwara. Ramana called it the Self. Modern people might call it Source, or Consciousness, or if they are trying very hard to avoid Sanskrit, “the Intelligence underlying existence.”

The name doesn’t matter. What matters is this: it is running the show. It has always been running the show. You are not, and have never been, the Chief Executive.

“But What About My Mistakes?”

And here is where Ramana’s answer becomes genuinely revolutionary.

If the same Supreme Intelligence that runs your digestion and beats your heart is also the Force underlying all of existence – then who, exactly, was the “doer” of those past actions you’re so busy prosecuting yourself for?

This is not a hall pass for bad behaviour. This is not Vedantic permission to be careless. This is something far more precise.

It’s the recognition that the “you” who made those decisions – the anxious, grabbing, fearful, confused identity that acted back then – was itself a product of a web of causes and conditions so vast and so complex that no individual ego could have possibly directed it. Ramana is essentially saying: you were not the driver. You were, at most, the passenger who thought they were steering.

Think of it like the GPS on your phone. You think you’re navigating. But the GPS is using satellite data, traffic algorithms, map updates, real-time rerouting decisions – a million variables your eyes can’t even see. If you end up on the wrong road, is it really you who chose it? Or was it the signal, the map data, the moment of distraction, the imperfect information?

The Supreme Doer – that vast Intelligence – accounts for all of it. Every variable. Every condition. Every circumstance that led to every choice.

The Background App You Forgot About

Here’s another way to think about it.

On your phone right now, there are apps running in the background that you have completely forgotten exist. They are syncing your data, updating your contacts, managing your cloud storage – quietly, competently, without any drama or press releases.

Consciousness works the same way. It is the background process that runs everything – your autonomic nervous system, the movement of the planets, the water cycle, the growth of a child in the womb. It doesn’t send you notifications. It doesn’t ask for acknowledgment. It simply operates, with a precision and elegance that makes the most advanced AI look like a pocket calculator.

And here is the liberating part: that same Intelligence was also the background process behind everything that has happened to you, and everything you have done.

The good. The bad. The cringe-worthy. The regrettable. All of it arose from that Totality.

The Lighter Wallet of Guilt

Ramana’s teaching isn’t asking you to become irresponsible. It’s asking you to become honest.

The ego says: “I did that. I am guilty. I must carry this forever.”

The Supreme Doer teaching says: “That action arose from the Totality. You were the instrument. The instrument is not guilty of what the music is.”

When you truly internalize this – even for thirty seconds – something remarkable happens. The fist in your chest around that old regret… loosens. Not because you have escaped accountability, but because you have suddenly seen the full picture of what accountability even means when you are not, in fact, the independent agent you thought you were.

The cosmic laptop, as it were, has a much better virus protection system than your individual guilt-loop.

A Practical Experiment

Next time you find yourself spiralling into the past – whether it’s 3 AM or 3 PM – try this.

Take a slow breath. Notice the breath happening. Notice that you did not decide to breathe in the last sixty seconds – it just happened. Notice that your heart is beating, your cells are functioning, your temperature is being regulated, all without a single conscious instruction from you.

And then ask: who is doing all of that?

Sit with that question. Not to get an intellectual answer, but to feel the weight of the Intelligence behind it. The same Intelligence that handles your digestion with such extraordinary precision is also handling the full arc of your story – including the chapters you wish you could redact.

And maybe, just maybe, that Intelligence knows a bit more about the editing process than your 3 AM committee does.

The Final Word (From Arunachala, Not from Me)

Ramana was the quietest revolutionary who ever lived. He didn’t shout from rooftops. He didn’t run workshops with certificates and a merch table. He just sat, in stillness, and pointed to the one thing that was undeniably real: the Self – the Supreme Doer – that underlies everything.

His message on past karma wasn’t “don’t worry about it.” It was far more powerful: you were never the doer you thought you were. And the Force that actually runs this show? It doesn’t make mistakes. It doesn’t have a ledger of your sins. It’s too busy keeping your heart beating to hold a grudge.

So maybe go ahead and fire that 3 AM committee.

The Supreme CEO has it handled.

Published on Nalla Madras – All things movies, music, and philosophy, from a South Indian, Madras-born native’s perspective.

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?

Who Am I? Exploring the True Owner of Your Inner House

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!

Your House, Your Self: A Chill Take on Life and Beyond

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.

Put on Your Oxygen Mask First – Life’s Ultimate Rule

We’ve all been there. Settling into our airplane seat, adjusting the seatbelt with an air of false confidence, nodding sagely at the safety demonstration we have absolutely no intention of following unless the plane turns into a submarine. And then comes the golden piece of wisdom, disguised as a simple instruction:

“In case of a loss of cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the overhead panel. Please secure your own mask before assisting others.”

Sounds reasonable, right? But think about it—this is not just an in-flight safety precaution; this is a life philosophy masquerading as aviation protocol.

Selfish or Sensible?

At first glance, it may seem selfish. Why should I put on my mask first? Shouldn’t I be the noble soul, helping my fellow passengers, rescuing kittens, and ensuring world peace?

Absolutely not. Because if you pass out from lack of oxygen while trying to help others, you’re no help to anyone. In fact, you’ve just become another unconscious person who now needs to be helped. Great job.

This is exactly how life works. You can’t pour from an empty cup. You can’t donate from an empty bank account. And you definitely can’t inspire others if you’re gasping for breath—literally or figuratively.

Life Applications of the Oxygen Mask Rule

1. Financial Oxygen – The Money Talk

We’ve all heard it: Money isn’t everything! True. But try telling that to your landlord when rent is due. Try explaining to the grocery store cashier that your “positive energy” should cover the bill.

It is far better to be rich and miserable than poor and miserable. At least with wealth, you can be miserable in comfort, with a therapist, a spa day, and an overpriced cup of artisanal coffee. Being financially secure means you can help others without sinking yourself.

I once knew a man who donated generously to charity—even when his own finances were a mess. He prided himself on being selfless, until one day, he couldn’t pay his own rent. Who came to his rescue? The very people he had been donating to. See the irony? If he had secured his own financial oxygen mask first, he could have continued helping others without needing help himself.

2. Emotional Oxygen – The Art of Saying No

You know that friend who always says “yes” to everything? The one who volunteers, helps everyone move, covers extra shifts at work, and babysits other people’s unruly kids? Ever notice how that same person often looks exhausted, frustrated, and one “Can you do me a favor?” away from a nervous breakdown?

Helping others is noble, but not at the cost of your own mental health. If you’re drowning, you can’t be a lifeguard.Learn to say no. Prioritize your well-being. Even Buddha didn’t try to enlighten people while he was still figuring himself out—he sat under a tree, meditated, and then started sharing wisdom.

3. Health Oxygen – The Body Keeps the Score

We all know someone who works 18-hour days, survives on caffeine, and insists, “I’ll rest when I’m dead.” Spoiler: That’s a fast-track way to meet that deadline sooner than expected.

You need to take care of your health before you can take care of others. A sick person can’t be an effective caregiver. A sleep-deprived employee can’t be productive. If your body is screaming for rest and you ignore it, you’re setting yourself up for a spectacular crash—just like ignoring a flashing fuel light in your car.

I once met an overworked CEO who prided himself on being “too busy for vacations.” He ended up collapsing in his office due to exhaustion. The company? It survived without him. His health? Took years to recover. Secure your ownoxygen mask before trying to run a marathon for others.

Final Descent: Prioritize Yourself, Then Help Others

The next time you hear the airplane oxygen mask announcement, don’t roll your eyes—internalize it. It’s not about being selfish; it’s about being strategically self-sufficient. If you’re thriving, you can uplift others. If you’re barely surviving, you’re just another person needing help.

Take care of your finances. Protect your mental health. Prioritize your well-being. Because once your oxygen mask is securely in place, you can truly make a difference in the lives of others.

Now, sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.

Would love to hear your thoughts—especially if you’ve ever had to put your own “oxygen mask” on first in real life!

The Absurdities of Life: A Comedic Exploration

Life is the most elaborate practical joke ever pulled, and the punchline? Well, we’re it. Every twist, every turn, every ridiculous desire, and every existential crisis is one big cosmic “gotcha!” And what do we do? We soldier on, pretending it all makes sense. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.Let’s break down this tragicomedy, one absurdity at a time.

Your Body: The Ultimate Lemon

The human body is a marvel of engineering—if that engineering was done by a drunk intern on their first day. Sure, it works most of the time, but it’s also ridiculously fragile.

  • Stub your toe? Your entire day is ruined.
  • Catch a cold? Your body turns into a snot factory overnight.
  • Eat the wrong thing? Enjoy spending the next 48 hours praying to the porcelain gods.

And then there’s the grand finale—death. It’s inevitable, no matter how much green juice you drink, how many yoga classes you take, or how many supplements you shove down your throat. The irony? Most of us spend our entire lives trying to avoid the one thing that’s guaranteed to happen.

Chasing Carrots: The Never-Ending Cycle of Want

If life were a movie, desires would be the recurring villain—always popping up, always causing chaos. No sooner do you satisfy one craving than another comes stomping in like a toddler demanding attention.

Let’s break it down:

  • Want a promotion? Great! But now you want to quit because your boss is unbearable.
  • Want a new car? Sure, but now you need a better house to park it in.
  • Want to find love? Perfect! But now you’re wondering why they leave the cap off the toothpaste every. single. time.

It’s like we’re all hamsters on a wheel, running toward a carrot that keeps moving further away. And when we finally get the carrot? Surprise! There’s another carrot right behind it.

Hormones: Nature’s Comedy Writers

Let’s talk about nature’s cruelest joke: reproduction. Nature took one look at us and said, “Here’s an idea—make them desperate to find a mate.” And then it threw in hormones to make the process even messier.

The absurdity of mating rituals:

  • You dress up, swipe right, and pray the person doesn’t ghost you after you awkwardly overshare about your cat’s dental problems.
  • You go on dates where you pretend to like jazz or sushi or hiking, all to impress someone who might not even like you back.
  • And if it all works out, congratulations! You now have to spend the rest of your life arguing about how to load the dishwasher.

And why do we do this? Because our bodies demand it. They don’t care about love or compatibility—they just want us to pass on our genes. It’s biology, baby. And it’s ridiculous.

Loneliness: The Frenemy That Keeps Us Company

Humans are social creatures, which is just a fancy way of saying we’re terrified of being alone. That fear drives us into relationships—sometimes good, sometimes… well, not so good.

Signs you’re in it for the wrong reasons:

  • You stay because “at least they text me back.”
  • You ignore red flags like they’re decorative banners at a party.
  • You convince yourself that everyone argues about who left the milk out for three days.

But hey, it’s better than being lonely, right? Wrong. Toxic relationships are like drinking expired milk—you know it’s bad for you, but you keep going because you’re too afraid to throw it out. And yet, we stay. Because at the end of the day, loneliness whispers, “At least expired milk is something.”

Validation: The Drug We’re All Addicted To

We all want to be special. We want to be seen, admired, and applauded. But life has other plans.

Here’s how this usually goes:

  • You work hard on a project, pour your heart into it, and present it with pride.
  • The response? “Hmm, it’s okay, I guess.”
  • Or worse, someone says, “You should’ve done it this way instead.”

It’s like baking a beautiful cake and having someone say, “Oh, it’s a little dry.” Thanks, Brenda. I wasn’t trying to win The Great British Bake Off.And yet, we keep chasing validation, like moths to a flame. Because deep down, we all secretly hope someone will look at us and say, “Wow, you’re amazing.” Instead, they usually say, “Could you not?”

From Goo to Grief: The Bookends of Existence

Let’s talk about the two bookends of life: birth and death. Neither one is particularly pleasant.

Birth:

  • You start your life being squeezed out of a human body like a tube of toothpaste.
  • You’re covered in goo, crying uncontrollably, and surrounded by strangers holding scissors.
  • Your first experience in the world is people poking and prodding you while you scream, “What is happening?!”

Death:

  • If you’re lucky, it’s peaceful. If not, well… it’s probably embarrassing. (“He choked on a grape? Seriously?”)
  • And then there’s the aftermath: people crying, awkward eulogies, and someone inevitably saying, “They’re in a better place now,” even though no one really knows.

And sandwiched between these two events is a lifetime of stubbed toes, bad haircuts, and awkward small talk at office parties. Life: the gift that keeps on giving.

Keeping Up With the Cohorts

Humans are competitive by nature. It’s why we invented things like the Olympics, reality TV, and LinkedIn.

The exhausting cycle of one-upmanship:

  • Your coworker buys a new car, so now you feel like your car is trash.
  • Your friend goes to Bali, so now you’re Googling “cheap flights to anywhere exotic.”
  • Your neighbor renovates their kitchen, so now you’re suddenly obsessed with granite countertops.

It’s a never-ending game of “Who’s Winning at Life?” The catch? No one is. Because even if you’re on top today, someone else will outdo you tomorrow. It’s like playing Monopoly but with real money and actual tears.

There Is No Point, and That’s the Point

Life is absurd. It’s messy, chaotic, and often feels like a joke we don’t quite understand. But maybe that’s the point.

Here’s the truth:

  • Life doesn’t make sense, and it probably never will.
  • We’re all just winging it, pretending we have it together, while secretly Googling “how to be a functioning adult.”
  • And that’s okay.

So, laugh at the absurdity. Embrace the chaos. And when life feels like it’s too much, just remember: we’re all in this ridiculous farce together. And honestly? It’s a pretty funny show.