Mirrors of the Mahabharata: Reflected Names in Namesakes and Reflected Souls in Shadows of Self (Part-II)

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Published on: 2025-03-05 05:48 pm

Mirrors of the Mahabharata: Reflected Names in Namesakes and Reflected Souls in Shadows of Self (Part-II)

Maggie's motivation to be promoted to partner is largely driven by her desire to improve her self-esteem and gain a sense of power and autonomy. Maggie’s situation can be compared to Karna’s journey in the Mahabharata. Karna, born with divine potential but raised as a charioteer’s son, constantly seeks validation from society and, most importantly, from himself. Like Maggie, Karna desires recognition and respect, which he believes can be achieved through his prowess as a warrior. In Erlich's case, his guilt and shame after making mistakes stem from his self-evaluation and the realization that his actions negatively affect his teammates. This reflects the self-awareness and self-concept functions of the self, where he perceives himself as failing in his role, which leads to negative emotions. The reflexive consciousness of the self means Erlich is aware of his performance and its consequences, which induces feelings of inadequacy. Like Erlich, Yudhishthira struggles with self-perception, believing he has failed as a ruler and a person. His guilt is so overwhelming that he considers renouncing the throne and retreating to the forest.

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To recap the understanding from the previous part:

The journey of selfhood in the Mahabharata is not linear but cyclical—a movement of separation, recognition, and reunion. If the self, as Advaita Vedanta asserts, is immutable and ever-present, why does it experience fragmentation? This paradox is explored through the idea of Chyuta—deviation from the undivided self—and the eventual realization that existence is undeniable: "It exists. I exist. The soul exists."

Before self-recognition, the self must first see itself as something ‘other.’ This is where the concept of Pratibimba (reflection) becomes crucial. The self, like a crystal absorbing the color of its surroundings, forgets its inherent purity when it identifies with external projections. In this reflected state, the self perceives a world of multiplicity, separation, and conditioned existence.

Chyavana’s birth is a symbolic representation of this first deviation. Puloma’s abduction represents an act driven by desire, mirroring the way the self (ātman) gets caught in the web of sensory attachment. Chyavana, whose name means ‘the fallen one’, embodies this fall—akin to the jīva forgetting its true nature. This Chyuta moment initiates the journey toward self-reunion, but the path is not immediate.

If the self first sees itself as something separate, the next stage is self-dialogue, where one aspect of the self questions the other. This is illustrated through Ruru and Sahasrapada.

Ruru, Chyavana’s grandson, in his impulsiveness, mistakes a lizard (Dundhuva) for a snake and prepares to strike. But this lizard—Sahasrapada Ruru, meaning "one who has walked ahead"—is in fact an extension of himself. It is the self that has already undertaken the journey, holding wisdom that the younger self has yet to attain. Sahasrapada reveals that mistakes and suffering do not diminish existence; rather, they are integral to self-recognition.

Ruru’s realization through Sahasrapada marks the shift from seeing the self as fragmented to seeing the self as a continuum—a conversation between its past, present, and future. This dialogue is essential to the self’s understanding of its own reality.

The culmination of this journey is seen in Astika’s birth, which represents the positive assertion: Existence is undeniable. The union of Jaratkaru (the sage) and Jaratkaru (the serpent) is deeply symbolic. Their names, both meaning "monstrous destruction," suggest the dissolution of ego, ignorance, and separation. From this union emerges Astika—a name that directly means ‘one who affirms that it exists.’

Here, the Pratibimba (reflection) completes its purpose. The self, once lost in its own distorted projection, reclaims its true identity. The jīva no longer sees itself as a mere reflection but as the original consciousness—as existence itself. This marks the transition from deviation (Chyuta) to self-recognition, leading directly into the dual perspectives of self that the third part of the story explores.

The journey from Chyavana to Astika sets the stage for the Self-as-Subject (the unchanging experiencer) and Self-as-Object (the conditioned self). Just as Arjuna struggles between these two perspectives, so does every individual navigating their own Chyuta moment—the point of self-deviation—until they arrive at self-reunion. Krishna’s guidance dissolves Arjuna’s conflict, just as Pratibimba-vāda dissolves the illusion of separation between the individual and the universal.

Thus, the Mahabharata, through these interconnected narratives, not only narrates history but encodes profound philosophical reflections on the self’s journey—from falling into multiplicity to recognizing its own eternal existence.

II. The Self in Reflection – Navigating Identity through Self-Concept

Building upon the concept of Pratibimba-vāda and the reflection theory in Advaita Vedanta, where the jīva (individual self) is seen as a mere reflection of īśvara (supreme self), the inquiry into selfhood extends beyond metaphysics into the psychological realm. Just as the mirror of the intellect (buddhi) gives rise to a sense of individuality in Vedantic thought, the framework of self-concept in psychology explores how personal identity is shaped through internal reflections and external perceptions.

The Dynamic Nature of Self-Concept is not a fixed entity but an evolving construct that is continuously shaped by life experiences, cultural influences, and personal introspection. It forms the foundation of identity, allowing an individual to navigate their understanding of themselves in relation to their environment. In this way, the Mahabharata’s narratives, through characters mirroring one another in names, roles, and destinies, serve as profound reflections of how self-concept is constructed, questioned, and transformed over time.

The fluid nature of self-concept echoes the non-dualistic perspective of Advaita Vedanta, where perceived distinctions arise due to ignorance (avidyā) and dissolve upon realization. This understanding aligns with the idea that identity is neither static nor isolated but is in constant dialogue with the external world. Just as the reflection of consciousness in the intellect gives rise to ego (ahaṁkāra), an individual’s self-concept is shaped by an interplay of internal cognition and external feedback.

Self-as-Subject and Self-as-Object: The Dual Perspectives of IdentityA significant dimension of self-concept lies in the distinction between "Self-as-Subject" (the "I") and "Self-as-Object" (the "Me"). The "Self-as-Subject" represents the internal experiencer—the active agent of perception and cognition, similar to the witnessing consciousness (sākṣī) in Advaita Vedanta. This aspect of the self is beyond social definitions and remains the pure experiencer of reality.

In contrast, the "Self-as-Object" pertains to how individuals perceive themselves based on external evaluations, social roles, and cultural conditioning. This mirrors the way jīva perceives itself as distinct due to ignorance, identifying with transient attributes rather than its true, undivided nature. The Mahabharata often highlights this interplay through characters who grapple with their social roles versus their inner calling—Arjuna’s hesitation before the Kurukshetra war exemplifies this duality, where his "Self-as-Object" struggles against his "Self-as-Subject." Krishna’s guidance ultimately dissolves this conflict by directing Arjuna toward self-realization.

Balancing Reflection and Reality an individual’s self-concept is healthiest when it integrates both perspectives—the internal truth of the "Self-as-Subject" with the practical engagements of the "Self-as-Object." However, an imbalance can lead to distortions in identity. A person overly fixated on external validation ("Self-as-Object") may lose authenticity, much like Duryodhana’s relentless pursuit of power despite inner turmoil. Conversely, those who detach entirely from external realities ("Self-as-Subject") may struggle to function within societal structures, as seen in the struggles of renunciates who abandon all social ties but still wrestle with the lingering impressions (vāsanās) of identity.

By weaving together reflections from Vedantic philosophy and psychological frameworks, one can understand that self-concept is an evolving mirror, where clarity is achieved only when distortions of ignorance are removed. Recognizing the impermanent nature of personal identity and embracing the non-dual essence of self paves the way for a more harmonious existence—one where the self is neither bound by illusion nor lost in social constructs, but instead realizes its unity with the infinite. Self-concept shapes personal identity through experiences, interactions, and self-reflection. It is dynamic, continuously evolving under the influence of family, culture, and societal norms. Neither innate nor fixed, it forms the foundation for understanding one’s traits, values, and roles.

Structured yet fluid, self-concept integrates "Self-as-Subject"—the inner experiencing self—with "Self-as-Object," shaped by external perceptions. A balanced self-concept harmonizes authenticity with social adaptability. Overemphasizing external validation can lead to insecurity, while excessive focus on the inner self may cause social detachment.

Navigating both dimensions is crucial for personal growth and social harmony. By maintaining equilibrium between self-awareness and external expectations, individuals cultivate resilience, authenticity, and a well-rounded identity. I came across a compelling quote recently by the sociologist Stuart Hall: "Experiencing oneself as both subject and object, of encountering oneself from the outside, as another—or an other—sort of person, next door is uncanny." This observation struck me as a profound lens through which to explore the nature of the "self" as a construct, and more intriguingly, as a gateway to understanding the interconnected nature of self and reality.

Stuart Hall’s notion of encountering oneself as both subject and object reveals a fundamental paradox of human existence. The self is both an experiencer and an observer, a participant in life and a reflection of its societal constructs. This duality underscores the fluid nature of identity, one that is constantly shaped by introspection and interaction.

Sociologists Berger and Luckmann argue that reality is socially constructed, and so too is the self—emerging from the interplay between personal agency and external expectations. The self does not exist in isolation; it is woven into a broader tapestry of cultural narratives, roles, and shared meanings. Yet, within this collective framework, the self retains its individuality, navigating the tension between autonomy and belonging.

This dynamic nature of selfhood extends into psychological and philosophical domains. The "Self-as-Subject" represents the internal perceiver, the conscious mind that experiences emotions, thoughts, and sensations. It is this aspect that seeks meaning, formulates personal truths, and embodies individuality. On the other hand, the "Self-as-Object" emerges through social perception—how we are seen, evaluated, and contextualized by others. This dual framework is essential to self-awareness, as it allows us to construct meaning, adapt to societal expectations, and engage in self-reflection.

The oscillation between these two aspects is a necessary condition for growth. Overemphasis on the "Self-as-Object" may lead to excessive reliance on external validation, eroding authenticity and self-worth. Conversely, an overindulgence in the "Self-as-Subject" may result in detachment from social realities, fostering isolation. A balanced self-concept harmonizes these perspectives, enabling individuals to remain true to their inner selves while engaging meaningfully with the world around them.

Furthermore, this dual awareness compels us to reconsider the nature of reality. If selfhood is shaped by social interactions, then reality itself may be less an objective constant and more an evolving construct influenced by collective human experience. Intersubjective knowledge—truths formed through communal agreement—demonstrates that reality, like the self, is fluid and co-created. What we perceive as truth is often a product of cultural, historical, and interpersonal influences, reinforcing the notion that identity and existence are inextricably linked.

Ultimately, the self is not merely an abstract construct but a bridge—a convergence of the personal and the universal. The interplay between introspection and external engagement shapes not only individual identity but also our broader understanding of reality. Hall’s insight into the uncanny nature of self-awareness is thus not a limitation but a gateway to deeper existential inquiry. To experience oneself as both subject and object is to acknowledge the interconnected nature of being—to embrace the complexity of selfhood while participating in the grander narrative of existence.

The question, then, is not merely one of theory but of lived experience. If the self is both shaped by external forces and a product of introspection, how does this dynamic unfold in the realities of modern life?

Nowhere is this tension more visible than in the workplace, where individuals are constantly negotiating their identities within systems of power, hierarchy, and communal expectations. The professional world does not merely demand labor; it demands a performance of identity. Titles, promotions, salaries—all serve as markers of validation, reinforcing the externalized self.

In this landscape, one’s role at work often dictates self-worth. The corporate world fosters a structure in which individuals measure their value against performance reviews, client feedback, and team cohesion. As a result, the self becomes a balancing act—between ambition and authenticity, between social integration and individual integrity.

But what happens when this balance is disrupted? What happens when the self becomes too dependent on validation from an employer, a manager, or a team?

Consider the modern professional [Ferris, D. & Johnson, Russell & Sedikides, Constantine. (2017). The Self at Work. 10.4324/9781315626543-1].

The Burden of Validation: How Work Shapes the Self

Maggie was the kind of manager who had worked tirelessly at her job for years, often staying late into the night, leaving behind a trail of paperwork and countless meetings to prove her worth. She didn’t mind the long hours; in fact, she wore them like a badge of honor. Her goal was clear—promotion to partner. To Maggie, this wasn’t just a career advancement; it was the recognition she felt she deserved, a boost to her self-esteem that would affirm her place in the world. As she sat in her office one evening, typing out an email to a partner, she paused, considering the reflection in the glass window of her office.

"Is this really who I want to be? Is the promotion worth sacrificing all my time? But, no," she thought, "it's about respect. About power."

Erlich, on the other hand, worked in a completely different environment. The open-plan office of the software company he worked for was full of collaborative energy. Yet, this energy also wore him down. The culture of benevolence that his company promoted—where every team member was expected to be supportive and universally connected—was overwhelming. The pressure to be selfless and to continuously perform well left him mentally exhausted. Every small mistake, every failure, made him feel guilty. And it wasn’t just the guilt; it was the shame of not living up to the expectations of the team.

One evening, after another stressful day, Erlich found himself seated on his couch, the haze of marijuana slowly enveloping his thoughts. He knew this wasn’t healthy, but it was the only way to escape the constant self-judgment.

"If I can just take the edge off for tonight, I can start fresh tomorrow," Erlich mumbled to himself.

Maggie’s and Erlich’s stories demonstrate a common issue in corporate and organizational life—how the self is intricately tied to one’s role at work, and how individuals often shape their actions based on their perceptions of themselves and how they are perceived by others.

For Maggie, her self-worth was closely tied to the approval of her colleagues and the promotion that would elevate her to a higher status. This attachment to external validation was driven by the reflexive consciousness of the self. Maggie worked tirelessly, almost obsessively, ensuring she was seen as indispensable to the firm. She would regularly ask for feedback, craving the positive affirmations that would bolster her self-esteem. She wanted the world to know she was worthy of being a partner.

At a team meeting the next morning, Maggie’s colleague, a senior partner named Linda, casually remarked, “You’ve been working long hours lately, Maggie. Is everything okay? I’ve noticed you’ve been staying late more than usual.”

Maggie smiled, a mix of pride and exhaustion. “Yes, well, I want to make sure everything is perfect. You know, I’m committed to ensuring this firm’s success.”

Linda nodded knowingly but didn’t probe further. What Maggie didn’t realize was that her constant need to prove herself was starting to alienate some of her colleagues. The drive for validation often created a barrier between her and her team, and her growing obsession with being seen as indispensable wasn’t going unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Erlich’s struggle with the expectations of universalism and interconnectedness in his company was wearing him down. His self-esteem was inextricably linked to how well he could support the team and avoid letting anyone down. Every mistake, every failure, felt like a personal failing. The demands of the team drained him, and his need for constant validation only made him more vulnerable to guilt and shame when he couldn’t live up to the ideals set by the company.

During a team huddle one afternoon, his colleague Tom asked, “Erlich, you seem off today. Everything okay?”

Erlich hesitated, unsure whether to be honest. The company’s culture of openness made it difficult to hide his exhaustion. But the pressure to be the perfect team player kept him silent. Instead, he forced a smile. “Yeah, just a bit tired. But you know, it’s all about getting the job done, right?”

Tom seemed unconvinced but didn’t press him further. Erlich knew that even though the team cared for each other, he felt disconnected, like he was simply a cog in the machine, constantly working but never fully satisfied with his own performance.

Both Maggie and Erlich were struggling with the same issue—their identities and self-worth were tangled with their jobs. Maggie was pushing herself to be seen as indispensable, constantly working to earn external validation, while Erlich was overwhelmed by the idea that his mistakes would hurt his team. For both, the roles they played in their organizations became central to their sense of self. Maggie sought recognition for her tireless work, while Erlich internalized the team’s expectations, even at the cost of his well-being.

The self, as discussed in the theoretical overview, functions as both observer and participant, constantly evaluating and re-evaluating itself in light of external feedback and internal feelings. For Maggie, the self-as-object was constantly shaped by her need for recognition, while her self-as-subject struggled with the personal cost of her ambition. For Erlich, the self was both the idealized version of the perfect team member and the guilty self when he fell short of that ideal.

In both cases, the reflexive consciousness function of the self—how they appraised their abilities and identities—was key. Maggie’s need for external validation through work became a means of affirming her self-worth, while Erlich’s self-awareness of his failures led to the self-defeating behavior of substance use. Their stories highlight the complexity of the self at work. Maggie’s behavior was driven by the desire for power and recognition, while Erlich’s was motivated by guilt and the need to fit in with a benevolent team culture.

Ultimately, both Maggie and Erlich were caught in a cycle of self-evaluation, shaped by external expectations, which left them both feeling isolated despite being surrounded by colleagues. Their stories illustrate the conflict between the idealized self and the reality of their experiences at work. For Maggie, the pursuit of promotion, status, and recognition led to a disconnect from her true self, as her worth was defined by others' perceptions. Erlich, on the other hand, was trapped by a culture of endless selflessness and interconnectedness, which caused him to lose sight of his own well-being in the constant attempt to meet the needs of others.

Both individuals were unaware that their deep attachment to their professional roles and external validation was driving them further away from their authentic selves. Maggie’s obsession with validation and Erlich’s guilt-ridden behavior were not mere personality traits—they were reflections of the self as constructed through the lens of external expectations. The self, as they experienced it, was not an autonomous, independent entity but one that existed in constant negotiation with the pressures of their work environments.

In examining these cases, it becomes clear that the self is not a static entity. It is fluid, shaped by both internal desires and external influences, constantly in flux as individuals strive for approval, recognition, and self-acceptance. For Maggie and Erlich, breaking free from these cycles of external validation would require a shift in their understanding of the self—not as a role to be performed for others but as an authentic being that finds worth internally, independent of the judgments of colleagues or the demands of the workplace.

As they continued to navigate their respective professional lives, Maggie and Erlich might have found that true satisfaction and peace came not from the pursuit of external accolades or the constant fear of falling short but from embracing their own intrinsic value and redefining what success meant to them.

The concepts from the discussion on "self" and how they relate to Maggie and Erlich's cases illustrate how the self plays a crucial role in determining behavior and decision-making in a work context.

Maggie's Case: Self-Esteem and Self-Presentation

Maggie's motivation to be promoted to partner is largely driven by her desire to improve her self-esteem and gain a sense of power and autonomy. This reflects the self-enhancement function of the self, which involves actions aimed at boosting one's self-worth and sense of personal value. By seeking positive feedback, working late, and displaying visible signs of engagement, Maggie is engaging in self-presentation, where she is actively managing how others perceive her. This aligns with the interpersonal function of the self, where the self is not only about how one perceives oneself but also about how others perceive them. Maggie is trying to ensure that others see her as competent and worthy of the promotion, thereby managing her reputation within the organization.

Her behavior also connects with the self-concept, which includes beliefs about who she is and what she values. By pursuing the promotion, she is acting in line with her self-concept of being successful and important. Maggie's actions also illustrate self-regulation, as she adjusts her behavior to meet the perceived standards that would make her eligible for promotion, demonstrating how self-awareness and self-control are vital in the work context.

Maggie’s situation can be compared to Karna’s journey in the Mahabharata. Karna, born with divine potential but raised as a charioteer’s son, constantly seeks validation from society and, most importantly, from himself. Like Maggie, Karna desires recognition and respect, which he believes can be achieved through his prowess as a warrior. Despite facing rejection, he tirelessly works to prove his worth, much like Maggie staying late and displaying engagement to secure a promotion. His association with Duryodhana is a strategic move akin to Maggie’s calculated professional efforts, as both seek external validation to reinforce their self-concept.

However, Karna’s self-esteem is fragile; despite being one of the greatest warriors, his identity crisis remains unresolved. Similarly, Maggie’s self-worth might still be dependent on external affirmation, highlighting the potential pitfalls of excessive reliance on self-presentation.

Erlich's Case: Guilt, Shame, and Escaping Negative Self-Perceptions

In Erlich's case, his guilt and shame after making mistakes stem from his self-evaluation and the realization that his actions negatively affect his teammates. This reflects the self-awareness and self-concept functions of the self, where he perceives himself as failing in his role, which leads to negative emotions. The reflexive consciousness of the self means Erlich is aware of his performance and its consequences, which induces feelings of inadequacy. To cope with these negative emotions, Erlich turns to marijuana as a way to escape his distress, which could be seen as an attempt at self-protection or self-deception, where he avoids facing the underlying issue.

This behavior also ties into the self-regulation function, where Erlich is struggling to manage his emotions and actions. His guilt and shame highlight the tension between his self-esteem and his performance, which influences his behavior at work. Moreover, the interpersonal function of the self is evident here as well, as Erlich's actions and subsequent feelings of shame stem from how he believes others (his team members) view him.

Yudhishthira, the eldest Pandava, experiences immense guilt after the Kurukshetra war. Despite his adherence to dharma, the devastation and loss of countless lives weigh heavily on him. Like Erlich, Yudhishthira struggles with self-perception, believing he has failed as a ruler and a person. His guilt is so overwhelming that he considers renouncing the throne and retreating to the forest.

Instead of using external substances as Erlich does, Yudhishthira copes through self-imposed exile and detachment. His introspective nature is both a strength and a burden, as his guilt-driven withdrawal mirrors Erlich’s avoidance behaviors. The lesson from Yudhishthira’s story suggests that confronting guilt and seeking resolution through accountability and purpose, rather than avoidance, is essential for overcoming self-destructive tendencies.

The Self in the Workplace: Interconnectedness

Both Maggie and Erlich's experiences illustrate how the self is intertwined with the workplace environment. Maggie's drive for self-enhancement through career advancement and Erlich's struggles with self-evaluation and the emotional consequences of mistakes highlight how self-concept, self-esteem, and self-regulation are constantly interacting with the external environment, such as organizational structures, feedback from others, and interpersonal relationships.

The workplace serves as a context in which the self is not only influenced by external factors (like feedback, promotions, and team dynamics) but also actively shapes individuals' behaviors, emotional responses, and coping mechanisms. This reflects the executive function of the self, where people take actions based on their self-perception, striving to enhance their self-worth or protect themselves from negative emotions. Thus, understanding the complexities of the self is essential for improving workplace dynamics and employee well-being.

In the workplace, as in life, we constantly navigate this duality—striving for internal fulfillment while managing external expectations. Karna and Yudhishthira’s journeys illustrate how self-awareness, self-esteem, and the ability to critically assess oneself shape personal and professional paths. This interplay between subjective experience and objective reflection is essential in understanding identity, a topic that leads us to a deeper exploration of the self.

As we now turn to the next discussion—"The Self as Subject and Object: An Exploration of Identity and Consciousness"—we delve into the fundamental question: Who am I? This inquiry not only defines personal and philosophical journeys but also shapes the way individuals engage with the world around them.

The Self as Subject and Object: An Exploration of Identity and Consciousness

Who am I? This profound question has fascinated philosophers, psychologists, and individuals for centuries. At its core lies the intricate interplay between the self as a subject and the self as an object. Understanding this dynamic offers insights into personal identity, human experience, and the philosophical tension between freedom and determinism.

At the heart of our existence is the self as a subject, the "I" that experiences life. This is the aspect of the self actively engaged in perceiving, thinking, feeling, and acting. It is deeply tied to subjectivity—a first-person perspective that colors our unique experiences and emotions. For instance, when you feel joy, it is the subjective self that embraces the sensation, affirming individuality.

But how often do we pause to ask, what defines this subjective self? Is it merely a product of neurological activity, or does it transcend physical boundaries? The first-person perspective challenges us to reflect on the intimate and personal nature of consciousness. While modern neuroscience seeks to unravel the brain's mechanisms, the subjective self remains an enigma, posing questions that science alone may not answer.

Simultaneously, the self is also an object—something we can observe, analyze, and critique. This capacity for introspection allows individuals to step back and reflect upon their thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. When you stand before a mirror or mentally assess your actions, you engage with the self as an object.

Viewing oneself through a third-person lens invites critical inquiry. Are my actions aligned with my values? How do others perceive me? Such questions reveal the objective self’s role in shaping identity, informed by social norms, behaviors, and psychological traits. Yet, does this perspective risk reducing the self to external judgments? Can one ever fully know themselves without external reference points?

The dual nature of the self becomes apparent in moments of self-reflection. For instance, when you acknowledge, "I feel anxious," you are simultaneously the subject experiencing the anxiety and the object analyzing it. This interplay creates a feedback loop, where subjective experience informs objective analysis and vice versa.

Psychologists like William James have delved into this complexity, distinguishing between the "I" (self as subject) and the "me" (self as object). Similarly, Carl Rogers emphasized self-perception's impact on behavior and identity. These theories illuminate how the dynamic relationship between subjectivity and objectivity shapes our understanding of ourselves.

Yet, this interplay also prompts further inquiry: can we ever achieve true self-awareness, or are we perpetually oscillating between subjective immersion and objective detachment? Does this duality enhance or hinder our quest for authenticity? Let’s check the philosophical implications.

The tension between being a subject and an object resonates deeply in philosophy. Existentialists like Jean-Paul Sartre grappled with this dilemma, emphasizing freedom and choice as hallmarks of subjectivity, juxtaposed with the objectification imposed by societal expectations. This tension underpins the human condition, challenging us to find authenticity amidst external definitions.

Phenomenology, championed by philosophers like Edmund Husserl and Maurice Merleau-Ponty, further explores this dynamic. They argue for an embodied experience of the self, where subjectivity and objectivity are intertwined. The self, as both perceiver and perceived, navigates a world where boundaries between internal and external blur.

These philosophical perspectives invite us to question: how do we reconcile the freedom of subjectivity with the constraints of objectivity? Is it possible to transcend societal labels and embrace a unified sense of self?

So, how am I both subject and object?

Consider the everyday experience of looking in a mirror. You are the subject perceiving your reflection, yet simultaneously the object being perceived. This duality extends beyond physical observation to actions and interactions. When others speak about you, you become the subject of their conversation and, perhaps, an object in their narrative. However, even in such moments, you retain the agency to shape your subjective choices.

This perspective raises profound ethical and existential questions. Are we ever merely objects, passively defined by others? Or do we retain the power to act, to redefine our narrative, and to transcend victimhood? The answer may lie in our ability to integrate subjectivity and objectivity, embracing both as essential aspects of the human experience.

Thus, the self’s dual role as subject and object offers a rich tapestry for exploring identity, consciousness, and the nature of existence. This interplay is not a contradiction but a dynamic process that enables self-awareness, growth, and authenticity. By engaging with these perspectives, we can move closer to understanding ourselves and our place in the world.

So, who are you? Are you the experiencer or the observer, the actor or the acted upon? Perhaps the journey lies in embracing both roles, weaving them into a coherent narrative of self-discovery and transformation.

What’s the difference between a subject and an object? Is it as simple as the difference between “me” and “not me”? If so, let’s pause and ask: Who is the “me” anyway? The subject is an object too—a peculiar kind of object that’s aware of other objects. Or so it seems. But does awareness belong to the subject, or is the subject a mere byproduct of awareness, like loudness is to sound?

This interplay of subject and object opens Pandora’s box of existential riddles. Can an object exist without a subject? Imagine a chair in an empty room. Without someone to observe it, label it, or even conceive it, is it still a chair—or anything at all? Perhaps objects are just fragments of a larger whole, fragmented by the limitations of human perception. Think about it: Where does your finger end and the rest of your hand begin? Two millimeters more? Two less? Boundaries are illusions, abstractions created by subjects. But wait—aren’t subjects abstractions themselves?

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Who’s the Realest of Them All?

Here comes the plot twist. If the self is an abstraction, who’s typing this essay? Who’s reading it? Is the self an illusion? But wait, you protest, I’m here, aren’t I? Or are you just awareness itself—formless, observing, and realer than real?

And here’s where things get paradoxically clear: We’re like cameras searching for the lens within a photograph. What we’re looking at isn’t who we are. Instead, who we are is what we’re looking through. Cue the existential pun: the lenscape of reality is less about what’s seen and more about how it’s seen.

Does objectivity even exist, or is it another word for widely agreed-upon subjectivity? Numbers don’t lie, right? After all, 2+2=4. But consider this: The only reason you know 2+2=4 is because someone taught you. And who taught them? Trace it back to the first human who somehow figured it out, despite being a linguistic newbie. Did survival of the fittest include math tutoring?

Modern science prides itself on objectivity, but how can subjective beings create truly objective systems? Even the tools of science are subject to human interpretation. Here’s a pun for you: Objectivity is like trying to find a square peg in the round hole of subjectivity.

Nevertheless, the modern scientific narrative is a riot. Chemicals, amoebas, and billions of years later, here we are, blogging and debating objectivity. But let’s pause: How did the first human learn to talk? Necessity? Telepathy? Or maybe they just winged it. Evolutionary theory explains the how but conveniently sidesteps the why. As biologist Edwin Conklin quipped, “The probability that life arose by coincidence is like an encyclopedia resulting from an explosion in a print shop.”

Study of Pure Self in Wisdom Tradition

Enter the Vedic tradition, which flips the narrative. Instead of a linear history of accidents, we have an eternal cycle, guided by divine wisdom. The first humans weren’t bumbling amoebas but recipients of cosmic knowledge. Sounds poetic, doesn’t it? In contrast, modern education feeds us fragmented stories, leaving us more disoriented than ever. Depression rates are skyrocketing; wisdom is at an all-time low. Who knew the stone-age hunters were saner than their tech-savvy descendants?

Krishna’s Clarity

Amid the chaos, Krishna’s wisdom in the Bhagavad Gita offers a refreshing perspective. Truth isn’t an objective fact you stumble upon but a realization cultivated through devotion. As Krishna tells Arjuna:

My dear Arjuna, only by undivided devotional service can I be understood as I am, standing before you, and can thus be seen directly. Only in this way can you enter into the mysteries of my understanding. (Bg. 11.54)

In this light, objectivity isn’t about detachment but connection—an alignment with the universal flow.

In the Mahabharata, Arjuna stands on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, overwhelmed by self-doubt. He sees himself as an agent of destruction, a warrior about to fight his own kin. Here, he identifies with the self as object—a man judged by his actions, bound by duty and societal roles.

Krishna, however, teaches him the higher truth of the self as subject—the Atman, which is eternal and beyond worldly attachments. Krishna urges Arjuna to see beyond personal identity and act without ego, performing his duty as a detached observer. Arjuna’s journey from confusion to self-realization reflects the interplay between the experiencing “I” and the observing “Me.”

So, dear reader, who are you? Are you the typist of thoughts or their observer? Are you the subject or the object—or both? The next time someone claims to be “objective,” ask them if their truth came with a receipt. After all, in a world of infinite perspectives, even facts are subjective until God verifies them.

And with that, we end with the realest truth of all: Reality is punishingly subjective.

So, how do we truly become ourselves? To phrase it differently: How do human beings constitute themselves as subjects? Is it a birthright, a gradual unveiling, or a lifelong debate between “what I am” and “what I ought to be”?

The answer might lie in responsibility—specifically, the ability to explain one’s actions with reasons intelligible to others. To say, “I cheated because I wanted to win,” isn’t enough; it requires the added layer of accountability: Why did I want to win? What does this say about who I am? A subject, therefore, is not merely a desire-driven entity but one capable of reflecting on those desires—a person who chooses, identifies with, and ultimately accounts for their actions.

A person, Søren Kierkegaard proposed, is “a relation that relates to itself.” But what does this mean in the chaos of human emotions? Picture a competitive scenario: you feel tempted to cheat, guilt for the temptation, and a higher-order desire to win fairly. Which desire you act upon defines your authentic self. The subject, in this light, isn’t just someone with beliefs and desires but someone who evaluates those beliefs and desires, choosing the path that resonates with their vision of personhood. Responsibility, then, is about owning your choices and accepting the authority of norms by which you’re judged.

Cue the pun: Being a subject is subject to scrutiny.

Is there a difference between the self and the Self? Let’s illuminate it with a metaphor. Imagine pure white light passing through a prism, splitting into various colors. The colors represent the self—our material identities shaped by the body and its experiences. The white light, on the other hand, is the Self—pure consciousness untainted by the illusions of matter.

The self changes: “I am young, I am old, I am healthy, I am unwell.” The Self, however, is eternal, a constant amidst the flux. Recognizing this distinction requires the process of Self-realization, which dissolves the illusions of the self and restores us to our pure, uncolored nature. Or as a poet might say: “The prism of life may scatter us, but the light remains unchanged.”

Here’s where grammar gives us philosophical ammunition. Consider:

“I answered the question.” Here, “I” is the subject acting upon the object (the question).
“I was praised by my mentor.” Now, “I” becomes the object, acted upon by the subject (mentor).

This duality reveals the flexibility of “I.” Depending on context, it can either act or be acted upon. It’s a grammatical wink at our existential reality: sometimes we steer the ship, and sometimes we’re at the mercy of the waves.

How have these terms evolved? Once upon a philosophical time, the subject was the substratum—the essence of a thing—and the object was its appearance to the mind. Then along came Kant, flipping the script. He declared the subject as the perceiver and the object as the perceived, introducing terms like noumenon (the thing-in-itself) and phenomenon (its appearance). Ever since, subjective has meant personal and opinionated, while objective has implied factual and detached.

But here’s the kicker: even facts are perceived by subjects. Objectivity, then, isn’t as clear-cut as it seems. As a student once quipped: “Objective truth is subjective agreement in disguise.”

Can a thought be an object? If an object is “a thing external to the thinking mind,” the answer seems to be no. Yet thoughts have components (concepts), processes (thinking), effects (conclusions), and contents. In this sense, a thought is an object of reflection—something we can analyze, dissect, and judge.

But here’s a mind-bender: If you’re thinking about your thoughts, are you the subject or the object? Perhaps you’re both, like a snake biting its tail, endlessly looping through self-reference. And just when you think you’ve figured it out, another thought pops up, subjecting you to more pondering.

To be human is to dance between subject and object, self and Self. We are both the perceiver and the perceived, the actor and the acted upon. Our desires, beliefs, and actions form a symphony of contradictions, harmonized only by the tune of responsibility.

So, who are you? The prism or the light? The answer, as always, is both and neither. Because in the grand theater of existence, being a subject is less about what you are and more about how you choose to be.

And remember: Life is subjective, but death is the ultimate objective.

Imagine standing in front of a mirror. You see a reflection, but is it you? Or just light and shadows playing a convincing trick? Now here’s the kicker: is the “self” we carry every day just another trick—an illusion with a great PR team?

Why does the self exist? It seems our bodies need a navigator, much like a GPS for survival—tracking food, mates, safety, and comfort. But where’s the “real” GPS here? The brain. It perceives and processes, creating the “self” as a guide to navigate the terrain of life. Yet, this self arises from a necessary illusion: the sense of separateness from the environment. Why? Because without boundaries, how would one distinguish between a banana to eat and the branch holding it?

Here’s the pun: the self may be a lie, but it’s one we can’t live without.

Scientifically speaking, our bodies are a fusion of external energy—sunlight in food and electric sensory impulses flowing through every cell. The idea of a standalone “self” is like claiming a river exists without its source. The self operates through internal maps created by the brain. But wait—what’s a map without a reader? That’s where you come in, dear navigator. Your self reads the language map you’re decoding right now. But here’s a twist: language is merely a map of the social terrain, and you, the map reader, may just be another illusion.

Let’s make it complicated—or should I say, self-complicated? The truth is, we don’t have a single self. We have a crowd—a self for every social situation, each stepping up like actors on a stage. Ever notice how the “work” you doesn’t quite know the “weekend” you? Thank goodness—imagine the chaos if they did!

This self-switching is as automatic as a playlist shuffle, with no conscious DJ in sight. It’s unnerving to observe, but self-awareness starts with witnessing. And here’s the punchline: the “self” you’re observing isn’t even a self—it’s your attention. Just one attention for many selves. Who knew your internal theater had such a minimalist crew?

Furthermore, let’s turn to awareness. Without objects, does awareness even exist? Think of space: it’s filled with light, yet appears black because there’s nothing to reflect it. Awareness in deep sleep feels like that void. But add a dream, and voila—awareness notices itself again.

So, is awareness real if it’s object-dependent? Or is it like that one friend who only shows up when there’s something exciting to do?

Ah, the age-old question: are you the observer, or are you being observed? If “Being as Subject” places existence within individual consciousness, then “Being as Object” flips the lens. But what if both views miss the mark? Indian philosophies like Hinduism and Buddhism suggest a third option: nonduality, where the observer and the observed dissolve into one seamless reality.

The real twist? What if it’s Being itself that watches you? In this cosmic game of hide-and-seek, it seems we’re both player and pawn.

Now, here’s the good news: despite the philosophical head-spin, there’s a way to find balance. Focus your attention on your body—its sensations, its energy. The body is undeniably real, rooted in reality. When attention anchors to the body, the loop closes. The self of the moment becomes irrelevant; awareness returns to its source.

So, is the self an illusion? Yes, but it’s the kind of illusion we need to survive and thrive. Like a well-loved book, it’s a fiction that speaks to something real.

Next, the bigger question is- What would happen if you truly let go of the self? Could the body function on autopilot, or would society collapse without our many selves navigating its complexities? And if the self is an illusion, what does that make our sense of purpose?

Perhaps the self is like a cosmic joke—and the punchline is still unfolding.

Thus, Humans are endowed with complex faculties:

Thinking Faculty (Mind): Processes information and forms thoughts.
Personality (Self): Defines individual identity.
Consciousness and Awareness: Enables perception and understanding.
Senses and Body: Interact with the external world.

These faculties collectively allow us to perceive, analyze, and engage with objects in our environment. Awareness arises through their coordinated functioning, highlighting the interdependence of human complexity and the external world.

Now, why focus on the relationship between objects and awareness?

Understanding this relationship is essential to exploring the nature of perception. Objects don't exist in awareness without the senses, body, and mind acting together.

Pure consciousness—a state where subject-object distinctions dissolve—might be likened to moments of extreme focus or shock. For example, a physical jolt (like a hypothetical punch) could interrupt conventional thought patterns, bringing awareness to its raw state.

In creative fields, introspection provides material for expression. First-person narratives engage readers by framing experiences through personal lenses. However, the reliability of self-representation is debatable, as people often embellish or fictionalize personal accounts.

In grammar, the subject performs the action, while the object receives it. For instance, in “I love you,” “I” is the subject and “you” is the object. This grammatical distinction mirrors how awareness interacts with perceived objects—one acts, the other receives.

Through these frameworks, the interplay of awareness, objects, and the self becomes clearer, offering insight into human perception and expression.

The nature of self, awareness, and reality has been a cornerstone of philosophical and spiritual traditions. While diverse in their approaches, traditions like Advaita Vedanta, Buddhism and other Indic traditions converge in emphasizing the transient nature of self and the all-encompassing presence of awareness or divinity.

The concept of the self is not merely a philosophical abstraction in Indian thought; it is the very essence that shapes our understanding of existence, consciousness, and the universe. Across various schools of Indian philosophy—both āstika (orthodox) and nāstika (heterodox)—the nature of the self is questioned, analyzed, and ultimately revealed as a crucial key to unraveling the mysteries of life and liberation.

In Advaita Vedānta, the self is not a mere individual entity confined to the boundaries of the body or mind. It is a pure conscious essence, a reflection of the eternal and changeless Brahman, the ultimate reality. Here, we are confronted with a profound paradox: what we perceive as the world, the self, and even God, are but fleeting manifestations of a singular, unchanging truth. The world and its divine forms may have empirical reality, but it is Brahman alone that holds transcendental truth. The great illusion of māyā veils this truth, presenting the self as separate from Brahman. But the journey of self-realization in Advaita Vedānta is an invitation to awaken from this illusion and recognize that the individual self (ātman) is, in its truest form, one with the infinite Brahman.

The very term 'Vedānta' signifies the culmination of knowledge found in the Vedas, particularly the Upanishads, where the essence of the self is explored in profound depth. To realize one's oneness with Brahman is not just an intellectual exercise; it is a transformative awakening, a spiritual evolution where the apparent distinctions between the self and the universe dissolve. The ultimate goal here is liberation—moksha—freedom from the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. Ignorance, or avidyā, is identified as the root cause of our mistaken belief in separation, and the path to liberation lies in transcending this ignorance.

Yet, the narrative of the self is far from singular in Indian philosophy. The Cārvāka school, with its materialistic approach, posits that the self is merely the body—an intricate dance of the elements: earth, water, fire, and air. In this view, consciousness is nothing more than a byproduct of the body’s physical processes. While this perspective aligns with a pragmatic, empirical worldview, it struggles to offer an answer to the question of what happens to consciousness after death, leaving an unsettling void in its account of existence.

Jainism, in contrast, views the self as a formless soul (jīva), bound by karma and trapped in the cycle of samsāra. Liberation, for the Jain, comes through purification and the shedding of karmic layers, ultimately leading to liberation (moksha). Here, the self is not confined to the physical, but rather occupies the body as a distinct entity, free to transcend the material world.

Buddhism, perhaps the most radical in its negation, denies the existence of a permanent self altogether. Instead, it teaches that what we call the "self" is a fleeting combination of five skandhas—forms, sensations, perceptions, mental formations, and consciousness. The Buddha’s message is that clinging to the illusion of a permanent self is the root of suffering, and true liberation—nirvāṇa—comes when one relinquishes this attachment.

In the Nyāya and Vaiśeika schools, the self (ātman) is considered eternal but is not intrinsically tied to consciousness. Here, the self exists beyond pleasure and pain, and liberation comes when we break free from the cycle of suffering. These schools suggest that the self is an abstract, unchanging entity, existing in a state that transcends the duality of consciousness.

The Sāṃkhya and Yoga schools offer another view, proposing that the self (puruṣa) is pure consciousness, distinct from the material world (prakriti). According to these traditions, the pursuit of liberation is the realization that the true self is separate from the material reality—an insight that allows one to experience the divine detachment necessary to achieve spiritual freedom.

Advaita Vedānta, however, stands apart in its radical assertion that the self (ātman) and Brahman are not just intertwined, but are, in essence, identical. This philosophical system brings a clear message: all perceived differences between the individual and the universal, between the self and the divine, are the result of illusion. The world, as we experience it, is not what it seems. It is an intricate tapestry woven from the threads of māyā. What appears as separate forms and identities is, at its core, one infinite consciousness—Brahman. The self is not simply part of this reality; it is this reality.

This understanding of the self in Advaita Vedānta divides reality into three layers: Pratibhasik (illusory reality), Vyavaharik (empirical, practical reality), and Parmarthik (absolute, transcendental reality). While the empirical world is experienced through the senses and reason, it is ultimately an illusion when compared to the transcendental reality of Brahman, the only truth that remains unchanged, eternal, and undivided.

Advaita Vedānta offers a radical vision of the self that challenges us to transcend our limited perceptions. The self is not just an individual soul bound to a temporary body, but a reflection of the infinite consciousness of Brahman. Liberation, according to this philosophy, is not the escape from the world, but the realization of the world’s inherent unity with the self. In a world rife with division and multiplicity, this teaching invites us to look within and recognize that we are, in essence, one with the universe itself. Advaita Vedanta asserts that only awareness exists, with the self (Atman) merging into the cosmic consciousness (Brahman). On the other hand, Buddhism teaches that perception dissolves with enlightenment, while Christianity attributes existence to God’s consciousness. Despite variations, these perspectives converge on one truth: awareness and life are inseparable, forming a seamless experience.

Awareness serves as a tool for self-realization, dismantling egoic patterns such as attachment and fear. As one progresses spiritually, awareness itself dissolves, symbolizing ultimate freedom. In this state, life unfolds spontaneously, unfiltered by illusions of self or control. It is described as a “jump into the unknown,” where experience exists without subjective imposition.

The self appears tangible yet is merely an interplay of mental functions—conscious thought (Manas), subconscious impressions (Chitta), intellect (Buddhi), and ego (Ahamkara). These components, collectively termed Antahkarana (inner instruments), construct an illusion of individuality. Thoughts, arising from this interplay, challenge conventional notions of subject and object. Is a thought an object if it originates within the mind?

This duality extends into human experience: we exist both as subject and object. A person observing themselves in a mirror or a public figure scrutinized by society exemplifies this duality. The self constantly oscillates between observer and observed, reinforcing its impermanence.

Once the illusion of self dissipates, what remains is life as it is—ordinary, unfiltered, and free of constructs. Whether identifying as subject or object, reality remains unchanged: existence emerges from emptiness. Life, awareness, and self are but facets of the same truth, transcending all distinctions. This philosophical journey calls for embracing the present moment, letting go of attachments, and abandoning the search for meaning, to simply live in the now.

The pursuit of self-knowledge begins with the realization that the external world is impermanent. This insight leads to the search for an unchanging truth—a central tenet of Dharma. Turning inward becomes essential as external reality proves fleeting.

Understanding the cause of worldly activities unveils deeper insights into existence. The concept of Panchakosha (five sheaths) outlines different layers of being—the physical, vital, mental, intellectual, and bliss bodies—each offering a path toward self-realization.

Now, is the “I” a subject or an object? Typically, “I” is the subject, yet upon introspection, it becomes the object of self-reflection. For example, “I think” places “I” as the subject, but once examined, it turns into the object of thought.

Objectivity demands universal agreement, but modern perspectives blur these distinctions. Even scientific truths like the Earth’s shape are subject to interpretation, revealing the tenuous boundary between objectivity and subjectivity.

The ego perpetuates the illusion of a thinking self, but beyond thought lies the Eternal Self—a silent witness. Recognizing this dissolves the ego’s construct, unveiling the Self’s permanence.

Consciousness unites subjective experience with objective reality. While a brain function, it remains inherently subjective, yet aligns with objective truth based on perception. True understanding emerges when subjective awareness harmonizes with objective actuality, offering clarity in self-knowledge.

This exploration of self—from its transient nature to the realization of the Eternal Self—reveals the unity underlying existence. By transcending the duality of subject and object, one reaches the ultimate truth: a state of being where all distinctions dissolve, leaving only existence itself.

Let’s end today’s journey on namesake and selfhood by aother compelling story from Indian mythology that illustrates the interplay between the self as subject and the self as object is "Nachiketa and Yama" from the Katha Upanishad rewritten in my own words.

Nachiketa, a young seeker, questions the nature of existence when he witnesses his father offering old and useless cows in a ritual sacrifice. Disturbed by this hypocrisy, he asks his father, "To whom will you give me?" Enraged, his father impulsively replies, "To Yama, the god of death!"

Taking his father’s words literally, Nachiketa sets out for Yama’s abode. Upon arrival, he waits for three days before Yama appears. As a reward for his patience, Yama grants him three boons. For the final boon, Nachiketa asks, "What happens after death? What is the true nature of the Self?"

A hush settled over the vast expanse of Yama’s realm. The air was thick with silence, yet beneath it pulsed the rhythm of something eternal—something beyond time, beyond sorrow. The great Lord of Death, Yama, sat upon his throne of cosmic order, his eyes deep as the night sky, gazing upon the young seeker before him.

Nachiketa, the boy who had crossed the threshold of mortality, knelt before him. His voice, though young, carried the weight of a soul yearning for truth.

Nachiketa: "O Lord of Death, I have wandered through the corridors of existence, seeing myself in many reflections. I was a son, a student, a sacrifice to your domain. But if all these identities shift and change, who am I truly?"

Yama smiled, his gaze tender yet piercing.

Yama: "You ask not for wealth, nor for power, nor for pleasures that fade like mist in the morning sun. You ask of the Self, the essence beyond illusion. Listen, O seeker, and listen well..."

Yama raised his hand, and at once, the realm around them shimmered. The sky, once dark, now held the glow of countless stars, each flickering like the breath of the infinite.

Yama: "There is within you a light, Nachiketa, one that neither wind can extinguish nor darkness can engulf. It is the knower of all experience, yet it is untouched by experience itself. It is the silent witness, the eternal observer.

"Na Jayate Mriyate ba vipaschin

nayam kutsechinna bobhuba koschit

Ajo nityoh saswatoyam purano

Na hanyte hanyamane sarire."

This self which is no other than pure consciousness is never born out of anything, nor again does it have an end . It has no growth, nor does it have any decay. Even when old, it is ever-new. Even at the destruction of body the soul is never destroyed.

This, O seeker, is the Self as Subject—the Experiencing ‘I’.

You have seen the rivers flow, but have you ever asked—who is it that watches?
You have felt joy and sorrow, but who is it that remains when both fade?

This Self, the Atman, is like the boundless sky—unchanging, infinite, untouched by the storms that pass beneath it."

Yama leaned forward, his voice now softer, as if whispering a secret meant only for those who truly seek.

Yama: "Even when the body withers, even when the mind trembles, this Self remains. It does not hunger, nor does it thirst. It was never born, nor shall it ever die.

Like the sun that shines upon all, yet is never tainted by the dust of the earth, the Atman watches all, yet remains pure.

Realize this, O Nachiketa, and no sorrow can touch you, no fear can bind you. For you are not this perishable form, nor this fleeting mind—you are the eternal, the unchanging, the infinite."

A breeze, though there was no wind. A warmth, though no fire burned. Nachiketa closed his eyes, and for a moment, he felt it—that stillness, that silent presence within himself.

But then, like a wave retreating, the doubt returned.

Nachiketa: "Yet, Lord, when I look upon myself, I see a boy. A boy who was once a son, a boy who was once afraid. When my father cast me away, I felt pain. When I stood before you, I feared. Am I not this mind, these emotions? Are they not real?"

Yama sighed, his voice carrying the weight of countless souls who had asked the same question before.

Yama: "Ah, Nachiketa, that is the great illusion. You see yourself in the mirror and say, ‘This is me.’ But tell me—when the river reflects the moon, does the moon become the river?

The body you wear, the name you carry, the joys and sorrows you taste—all these are but garments of the Self. You have worn many before, and you shall wear many again. But none of them are truly you.

Once, you were a son. In your father’s eyes, you were an obedient child, a source of pride. Yet when he sent you away, were you still the same?

Then, you became an offering. You saw yourself as one bound by fate, powerless before my will.

And now, you stand before me as a seeker of truth.

Tell me, O Nachiketa, in all these changing roles, who is the ‘I’ that remains unchanged?"

Nachiketa felt something stir within him. A knowing. A remembering.

Nachiketa: "Then… am I both? The river and the reflection? The experiencer and the experienced?"

Yama: "Yes, and yet, beyond both. The world shall call you by many names. You shall feel many emotions, play many roles. But if you forget the one who watches, the silent ‘I’ within, you shall be tossed like a leaf in the storm.

Know this, Nachiketa—the wise see the world, yet remain untouched by it. They act, yet are free from action. They love, yet are free from attachment. They suffer, yet remain unshaken.

For they know that the Self is not what the world sees, but the one who sees the world."

A silence fell—a silence deeper than any Nachiketa had ever known. It was not emptiness. It was not absence. It was something full, something vast.

And in that silence, he understood.

Nachiketa bowed low, but not out of fear, nor out of duty. He bowed as one who had glimpsed the infinite and now sought to walk its path.

Nachiketa: "O Lord of Death, I see now. The world may call me by many names, and I may wear many faces. But I am not this shifting form, nor the tides of my mind. I am the silent knower, the eternal witness.

I am. I have always been. And I shall always be."

Yama smiled, and for the first time, the vast sky of his realm brightened, as if dawn had come to the land of the eternal.

Yama: "Then go, O Nachiketa, and live—not as the bound, but as the free. Not as the seen, but as the seer."

And with that, Nachiketa walked away—not from death, nor from life, but toward the truth that had always been within him.

The truth that waits for all who dare to seek.

Nachiketa thus learns that true wisdom lies in realizing that the self is both the subject and object—but ultimately transcends both. By understanding this, one moves beyond illusion (Maya) and attains liberation (Moksha).