It's from Acharya Prashant's beginner exam.

I was reading Bhagavad Gita 2.14, which says:

"All the experiences that you have arise from the contact of the senses with their material objects."

My understanding of this verse is that our experiences arise from sensory contact with the material world. In other words, experiences are products of this interaction. There is no experiencer. The senses come into contact with their objects, and an experience arises. Almost like the principle of action and reaction, there is no separate reactor that needs to be assumed.

Yet, people often use the Bhagavad Gita as proof of the Jivatma—an immortal soul that supposedly transmigrates from one body to another, continuing to exist after the death of the physical body.

Does the Gita actually support the existence of an eternal, individual soul, or are we reading that idea into the text?

I have a question guys please help me

I have been reading Ramana Maharshi lately, and a question has been bothering me. I’m genuinely trying to understand the connection between Advaita Vedanta, self-realization, and action.

According to Advaita, everything is ultimately Brahman, and the true Self is beyond the ego, the mind, and bodily identity. If Rama and Krishna were realized beings, why did they continue to act in the world?

If we say that Rama acted because fulfilling his purpose was important to him, wouldn’t that imply an attachment to a particular identity or role? If he identified himself with a purpose that he needed to fulfil, how could he be completely free from the ego?

Alternatively, if he acted to alleviate suffering, why would suffering matter to someone who had realized that everything is Brahman and that ultimate reality can never be harmed? Wouldn’t caring about suffering imply some kind of emotional attachment or identification with others?

And if the answer is empathy or compassion, another question arises: if the realized Self is formless, unchanging, and beyond the mind and emotions, where does that compassion come from? Does a realized person still experience emotions, or are their actions simply the result of the body and mind functioning without an ego identifying as the doer?

What I’m struggling to understand is this: if a realized person has no personal desires, no sense of doership, nothing to gain, and no fundamental separation between themselves and the world, why would they act at all? Why would they teach, help others, protect anyone, or even care what happens in the world?

I understand the distinction between ultimate reality (paramarthika) and empirical reality (vyavaharika), and I know the Bhagavad Gita discusses action without attachment and lokasangraha. But these explanations seem to tell me how action can coexist with realization, not why action would arise in the first place.

I’m particularly interested in how Ramana Maharshi’s teachings address this question. Does self-realization necessarily result in compassion or action, or can a realized person remain completely inactive without any contradiction? Is the idea that a Jnani acts for the welfare of the world merely an explanation at the empirical level, while ultimately there is neither a doer nor an action?

I’m not trying to argue against Advaita. I genuinely want to understand the philosophy without relying on vague explanations like “it was his divine purpose” or “he acted to protect dharma.” I want to understand the underlying logic: what is the relationship between the actionless nature of Brahman and the apparent actions of a Jnani?

(Framed it better using chatgpt)

Existential Reflections: Meaning, Consciousness, Free Will, and Morality

TLDR

You grapple with existential despair—nothing inherently matters—yet find meaning in consciousness itself, the rarity of awareness, and the comfort of quantum possibilities. Rather than paralyze you, this drives a desire to live fully and leave a meaningful mark, treating this life as supremely valuable precisely because it might be all you have (or one of infinite versions of you).

The Paradox of Meaning

I see everything and constantly think: what is the point? I love existentialism—the idea that we create our own purpose. Traveling, living well, and simply enjoying the universe for a moment feels great, but it comes with an overwhelming sense of despair. When you realize nothing inherently matters, it raises a terrifying question: if there is no cosmic point to existing, then why exist at all?

And yet, I still exist. I choose to exist.

The Miracle of Consciousness

Before now, I was unconscious atoms. Now those atoms have come together to form something that I can barely comprehend: me. I think this is the rarest thing possible. Consciousness at this level of complexity is extraordinary. I'm happy I'm not a dog or another creature that doesn't possess—or hasn't yet revealed—this kind of complex comprehension. Most creatures lack what I have: the ability to contemplate my own existence.

The Question of Free Will

But does free will exist? I would love to believe in it. I find comfort in Penrose's theories about microtubules and quantum phenomena as a potential seat of free will. Alternatively, there's the many-worlds interpretation: at each quantum collapse, the universe splits into infinite branches, creating every possible outcome. This idea provides great comfort. It means somewhere, in another branch of reality, I am a Pokémon master. Elsewhere, I'm the president. In another, I'm a beggar. Perhaps I'm even a turtle. Or Simba from The Lion King.

Who knows? Who knows?

Living Across Infinite Possibilities

This multiverse concept gives me a reason to live. I don't truly die—or rather, all versions of me exist simultaneously across all possible timelines. It feels almost spiritual: "I am you, you are me—one soul hopping through all kinds of possibilities."

This perspective motivates me to live this life to the fullest. I want to maximize what I have this time, knowing that even if I compromise on something now, perhaps another branch of reality fulfills it for me. That's both humbling and empowering.

The Desire to Matter

I would love to leave a big enough print on the world that I actually change the course of history. It would be nice. But then again, maybe I already have. Maybe in another timeline, I'm Napoleon. Or Genghis Khan. Maybe I'm no one—just a street beggar. Or maybe I was that turtle, or Simba.

The uncertainty is strangely liberating. It frees me from the pressure of needing to know whether I matter. Instead, I can simply choose to act as though I do.

Random Thoughts

Just random thoughts, really. But they matter because I think them.

Part II: Morality, Survival, and the Genes We Carry

The Origin of Morality

I grapple with many thoughts every day. One is the fundamental tension: Should I live according to ideals for the collective good, or should I prioritize what is good for me? What even is right? What is wrong?

We're taught these concepts as if they were handed down to us—as if "right" and "wrong" are cosmic laws, universal truths carved into reality. But where did they actually come from?

Evolution of Ethics

They were handed to us through evolution and survival. Not by some external authority, but by the brutal mathematics of natural selection.

Those who chose to die—who acted in ways that prevented reproduction, who made choices that didn't maximize their survival—their genes never passed on. They're gone. Their lineages ended. We don't inherit their moral intuitions because they didn't survive to pass them down.

What we do inherit are the genes of survivors. We carry the genetic code of those who chose to live, who reproduced, who acted in ways that kept them and their offspring alive.

The Genes We Carry

This means our entire moral framework—our sense of right and wrong—is fundamentally rooted in survival and reproduction.

Right and wrong, at their core, evolved because they worked. Cooperation with your tribe? Worked—survival rates went up. Reciprocity? Worked—mutual aid increased chances of living through harsh winters. Empathy? Worked—it strengthened social bonds and group cohesion. Fairness? Worked—it prevented conflicts that would tear groups apart.

These aren't universal truths about the cosmos. They're survival strategies that we've inherited biologically and culturally.

The Tension Remains

The irony is that we now live in societies and circumstances vastly different from those that shaped these genes. We can intellectually ask: "Should I act for the collective good, or for myself?" But we're asking this question with a brain that was literally designed—through millions of years of evolution—to prioritize both.

We have instincts for cooperation and instincts for self-preservation. We have drives toward fairness and drives toward advantage. These impulses aren't contradictions; they're the complex result of surviving in social groups where both strategies mattered.

What This Means

So when you feel the tension between doing what's right (collective good) and doing what's good for you (self-interest), you're not experiencing a cosmic moral dilemma. You're experiencing the echo of evolutionary trade-offs that kept your ancestors alive.

Your sense that "right and wrong" exist? That's real—but it's a human construct, encoded in your genes and your culture, forged in the crucible of survival. It's not less valid because it evolved rather than descending from the heavens. If anything, it's more grounded: it's tested by millions of years of real-world application.

The genes we carry are the genes of those who survived. And that survival was built on knowing—instinctively, biologically—what works. What keeps us alive. What holds communities together.

That's where morality comes from.

How It Connects

This connects back to your earlier reflection: you exist because your ancestors existed. You think about collective good and individual flourishing because those tensions were the conditions of human survival. These aren't abstract philosophical puzzles imposed on you from outside—they're wired into you because they mattered. They kept people alive.

And now, with consciousness and the ability to reflect, you get to choose: Do I honor that evolutionary inheritance? Do I act as my genes "want" me to? Or do I forge something new?

But even asking that question, you're using a tool evolution gave you.

The Dilemma of the Righteous Path

But here's where it gets complicated. In the real world, there is no single "right way."

Consider the Hindu epics: Rama embodied unwavering moral integrity. He never told a lie, not once. He lived by absolute principles—dharma without compromise. Hanuman, too, was a symbol of perfect devotion and righteousness.

Then there is Krishna.

Krishna lied. He schemed. He manipulated. Yet his actions benefited the collective good. He did what was necessary, not what was perfectly righteous. In the Bhagavad Gita, he tells Arjuna that sometimes action—even morally ambiguous action—is required for the greater good.

So which is the right way?

Rama's path: absolute moral principles, never bending, always honest. Krishna's path: pragmatism in service of collective good, bending rules when necessary.

We never truly know. And that uncertainty is maddening.

The Problem of Consequences We Can't See

Consider criminals who never get caught. They break moral laws, hurt people, yet face no earthly consequences. Justice doesn't touch them. They live comfortable lives while their victims suffer.

This is where karma—the idea that the universe automatically punishes wrongdoing—would provide comfort. I want to believe in it. I hold onto it. It would mean the universe is fundamentally just, that no one truly escapes the weight of their actions.

But I don't actually believe in karma. Not really. And that makes me a hypocrite.

Because I want to believe that:

• Rama's righteousness will be rewarded
• Krishna's pragmatism will lead to good outcomes
• Criminals will eventually face consequences
• The universe has a moral ledger

Yet I rationally know none of this is guaranteed. The universe is indifferent. An uncaught criminal can live and die in peace. A perfectly moral person can suffer unjustly. There is no cosmic accountant keeping score.

Living With the Contradiction

So what do we do? We hold contradictions:

• We want to believe morality matters, yet we suspect it doesn't.
• We admire both Rama's integrity and Krishna's pragmatism, yet can't fully embrace either.
• We want to believe the criminal will be punished, yet we know they might not be.
• We want karma to be real, yet we don't actually believe in it.

This is the human condition. We are hypocrites not because we're weak, but because we're conscious beings living in a universe that doesn't confirm our moral intuitions.

We evolved to crave justice, to believe in fairness, to want the guilty punished and the virtuous rewarded. These instincts served our survival. But the modern world—and existence itself—doesn't guarantee these outcomes.

The Choice Remains

And yet, we still choose. We choose to live by principles even though we can't guarantee they'll be rewarded. We choose to act for the collective good even though we can't be certain it will matter. We choose to believe in morality even though we suspect the universe doesn't care.

That choice—to act morally despite the uncertainty, despite the meaninglessness, despite the hypocrisies we can't resolve—that might be the most human thing about us.

For those of you read till here please comment lemme know your thoughts coz yeah I will know maybe I helped you get a perspective or maybe interesting enough to capture your attention !!!

Do let me know your viewpoints

I’ve been thinking about the connections between Hindu mythology, neuroscience, Kundalini, rituals, manifestation, and collective consciousness. The more I explore these ideas, the more I wonder whether spirituality can help us understand not just a divine power beyond ourselves, but also our own minds and our place in existence.

What if the gods and demons in Hindu mythology can also be understood as representations of the different forces within us?

Shiva might represent transformation and detachment, Vishnu preservation and balance, Durga courage, and Ganesha wisdom and discernment. Ravana is an interesting example because he was learned and powerful, yet his knowledge did not prevent his downfall.

Perhaps his story reminds us that intelligence without self-control can become destructive. These are psychological interpretations of familiar stories, not necessarily their original or only meanings.
Maybe the battles between Devas and Asuras can also be understood as conflicts within the human mind. We all experience desire, fear, anger, compassion, ambition, discipline, and reason. Sometimes these forces work together, and sometimes they pull us in opposite directions.

Perhaps the real challenge is not to eliminate certain parts of ourselves, but to understand them and stop any one impulse from controlling us completely.
This idea reminds me of Advaita Vedanta, which teaches that Atman, the deepest self, is not ultimately separate from Brahman, the absolute reality. It raises a fascinating possibility: what if individual consciousness is not entirely independent, but connected to something more fundamental? This does not mean that our everyday ego, with all its desires and insecurities, is God. Rather, it invites us to question whether our ordinary sense of identity captures the full nature of who we are.

I also wonder whether spiritual awakening can be understood as a process of bringing our inner world into greater harmony. The brain contains interconnected systems involved in emotion, memory, motivation, and attention. The limbic system and paralimbic regions contribute to these functions as part of a much larger network. Thinking about this makes me curious whether Kundalini practices, meditation, and spiritual discipline can help us become less controlled by habitual thoughts and impulses, allowing different aspects of our inner lives to work together more coherently.

Mantras and bhajans make me think along similar lines. Repetition, rhythm, sound, breathing, attention, and devotion can draw the mind into a particular state. It is almost like tuning different instruments in an orchestra until they begin to work together. Chanting and contemplative practices can influence attention and emotional regulation, but the idea that particular sound frequencies correspond to specific deities or invisible energies remains unproven scientifically. Still, the experience of feeling calmer, more focused, or more connected through these practices is worth exploring.
This also changes how I think about rituals. Lighting a diya, performing aarti, chanting mantras, and gathering for worship can create moments of reflection, connection, and emotional grounding. Alongside their religious and cultural significance, these practices can shape how we direct our attention and experience our emotions.

I sometimes wonder whether we become so focused on asking God for money, success, protection, or other material rewards that we overlook what these practices might help us discover within ourselves. Could prayer and ritual also be opportunities to reflect, develop discipline, find peace, and change how we respond to life?

At the same time, I don’t want to romanticise the past or assume that rituals were originally designed only for psychological well-being. Early Vedic rituals often involved offerings to deities, requests for desired outcomes, and beliefs about ritual efficacy. Indian traditions later developed a wide range of approaches to ritual, meditation, knowledge, devotion, and liberation. These different purposes can coexist. A ritual can be an act of religious devotion and also have psychological and social effects.

Manifestation offers a simple example of how our minds shape our experience. If I decide to look for blue cars, I may suddenly start noticing them everywhere. The cars were already on the road, but my attention has changed. Something similar happens when we focus on a goal. We may notice opportunities we previously ignored, make different decisions, and act more consistently. Intention can influence our lives through attention and behaviour, even without assuming that thoughts magically rearrange external reality.

Then there is the idea of collective consciousness. We often think of ourselves as separate individuals, each living inside a private world. But biologically and socially, we are deeply interconnected. Our bodies contain complex microbial communities, our survival depends on ecosystems, and our beliefs, language, identities, and emotions are shaped by other people. We influence one another constantly, often without realising it.

Could this interconnectedness point towards something deeper? Could individual minds be different expressions of a universal consciousness, each experiencing existence from a different perspective? I find the possibility intriguing, although biological and social interconnectedness alone does not establish that all minds share one consciousness. That remains a philosophical and spiritual question.

Perhaps this also helps explain why stories about saints and mahatmas are so compelling. Through sustained discipline, meditation, devotion, or self-inquiry, some people describe becoming less reactive and less attached to their ordinary sense of identity. Some report experiences in which the boundary between themselves and the world seems to dissolve. I wonder whether these experiences reflect a profound integration of the self, a glimpse of a deeper reality, or some combination of interpretations we do not yet fully understand. The experiences themselves deserve attention, even if they do not prove that universal consciousness exists.

Another important part of this exploration is how we interpret ancient texts. The Vedas, Upanishads, Puranas, and later yogic traditions emerged in different historical contexts and have distinct histories of composition, transmission, and interpretation. Vedic oral traditions preserved canonical wording with remarkable care. It would be inaccurate to assume that these texts were simply rewritten freely over time. At the same time, preserving words does not mean that interpretations never changed or that every later explanation reflects the earliest understanding.

The historical controversy over the supposed canals on Mars is a useful reminder of how easily expectations can influence interpretation. Some astronomers interpreted faint markings on the planet as artificial canals. Later observations did not support that conclusion. The observers were not necessarily inventing what they saw; they were interpreting ambiguous evidence through the ideas available to them.

We can make a similar mistake when reading ancient texts. If we already believe that Hindu mythology contains modern neuroscience, we may start finding brain science in every god, demon, or ritual. But the opposite mistake is possible too: dismissing every psychological insight simply because it comes from a religious tradition.

I think we need to separate four things: what a text actually says, how later traditions interpreted it, what we infer from it today, and what science can independently demonstrate. A modern interpretation can be meaningful without proving that an ancient author intended it. Equally, an ancient text can offer valuable reflections on human experience without using the terminology of modern science.
When I bring all these ideas together, a possible pattern emerges. Mythology can offer symbolic ways of thinking about our inner conflicts. Rituals can organise attention and strengthen social bonds.

Mantras and meditation can shape our mental experience. Spiritual discipline may change our relationship with habitual thoughts and our sense of identity. And our interconnectedness raises deeper questions about the nature of consciousness itself.
The idea that all consciousness is literally one universal reality is not scientifically established. But I don’t think that means the philosophical question is meaningless. It simply means we should remain honest about the difference between an interesting possibility and a demonstrated fact.

Perhaps spiritual practice is not only about asking something outside ourselves to change our lives. Perhaps it is also about becoming more aware of what happens within us. Maybe defeating our inner demons means learning not to be controlled by them. Maybe balance comes from understanding our impulses rather than blindly obeying or suppressing them.

And perhaps the divine can be understood in more than one way: as a being worshipped through devotion, and, in some philosophical traditions, as the deepest reality underlying both the self and the universe.

That is what the phrase **“I am God”** makes me think about. Not that my ego is supreme, that I am all-powerful, or that I stand above anyone else. Instead, it raises a more difficult question: could the deepest nature of the self be inseparable from a greater reality?

Maybe we are separate beings searching for the divine. Or perhaps we are expressions of something deeper, temporarily experiencing ourselves as separate individuals.

I don’t claim to know the answer. I am exploring an idea that sits somewhere between spirituality, philosophy, and our growing understanding of the human mind. I want to examine the connections without forcing every piece of evidence to fit my theory, but also without dismissing a possibility simply because it challenges the boundaries we have drawn between these fields.

In the growing internet era people either feel more like global citizens or they are connected to their regional identity strongly

In between these two extremes the Indian identity is losing hold.

Am I right in these thoughts kindly enlighten me?

So since i spend a decent amount of time on isntagram I thought why not learn some india philosophy from it. Who do ya'll think I should follow for it? (besides someone well known ones like acharya prashant)

Can rationality ever be complete without self-inquiry, or does ignoring the ego turn rationalists into hypocrites?

Not originally from Socrates.

Hi all,

I am starting a Substack series in which I reflect on The Story of My Experiments With Truth as I read it. Here is where you can access the very first post for the series, where I explain my rationale for this project. I hope you read and subscribe! Free of charge. Thanks!

"In late 2023, I liked to say my favorite book was Midnight’s Children, a carnival that indulged in acrobatic wordplay for its own sake. It was interestingly very accommodating with the modern urge to be stimulated constantly, and I think that’s why it resonated with me—aside from its “Booker of Bookers” distinction. Gandhi, however, didn’t obscure anything. And that’s exactly why I found him boring. He wrote with no trace of artifice, a complete translation of his being. I think writers, including me, could take a page from his book and prioritize truth over a clever turn of phrase.

I am an ordinary human being looking for an extraordinary code of conduct. Gandhi believed anyone and everyone could employ satyagraha—or soul-force—within his own life. That that happening on a mass scale was, in fact, the key to national liberation. That checked out. Well, I’m no freedom fighter. But by committing to this and documenting it, I feel I can graze something."

https://nethanreddy.substack.com/p/atma-pariseelana-introductory-essay

I was born in Bikaner, Rajasthan, India, and I’m 28 years old.

I’ve read so much philosophy that, somewhere along the way, I started questioning something most people seem to accept without a second thought: the structure of family life and the life we’re expected to live.

Sometimes, I feel like this entire structure was created by people who were afraid to step outside it, rather than by people brave enough to question it.

And the irony is that I’m a coward myself. I say this because, even though I want to leave this structure behind, I don’t have the courage to do it. I’ve become so accustomed to this way of living that breaking free feels almost impossible.

But I genuinely want to experience a different kind of life.

I’m not talking about becoming a monk, joining a religious path, or renouncing the world in the traditional spiritual sense. I don’t want to escape into religion. I want to begin a journey on foot, leave behind the life I’ve become accustomed to, and experience what it means to exist without being tied to the expectations of society.

I want to live anonymously. I want to go somewhere without anyone knowing who I am, without anyone looking for me, and without having to maintain contact with anyone. I want to experience a life where I’m not constantly connected to people, responsibilities, expectations, or the identity I’ve built for myself.

Yet, I can’t seem to gather the courage to take that first step.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I’ll ever begin this journey. Will I wait another 10 or 15 years before finally doing what I’ve wanted to do for so long? And what if I don’t even have that much time left?

The thought that I might spend my entire life thinking about freedom without ever experiencing it genuinely frightens me.

Have any of you ever questioned the reality we live in? Have you ever felt that what we call normal life is just a system we’ve become so accustomed to that we no longer question it?

Sometimes, I even wonder whether this entire existence is some kind of illusion, maya, or perhaps something resembling a simulation.

Maybe I’m just an overthinker. But I don’t think these questions are entirely meaningless. We spend our lives becoming more deeply entangled in relationships, responsibilities, possessions, and social expectations, often without stopping to ask ourselves whether this is actually the life we want.

I’m not saying that family, relationships, or responsibilities are inherently bad. Perhaps they give life meaning for many people. But I can’t stop wondering whether there’s another way to live, one that doesn’t revolve around all these attachments.

Have any of you ever felt this way? Have you ever wanted to walk away from your familiar life and experience complete anonymity and solitude, not for religious reasons, but simply to discover what life feels like outside the structure we were born into?

And if you have, did you ever find the courage to do it, or did you remain where you were, wondering what might have been?

I genuinely want to hear your thoughts. 🙏🏻

This is my first time making a post like this. I am open to criticism, so please feel free to respectfully challenge my arguments or share your opinions. I am a Hindi speaker, and my English is quite limited, so I have used an AI translator. I apologize for that.

Topic: If I have a particular definition of a word in my mind, should I advocate for that definition even if it is not widely accepted?

I have observed in debates that Hindus and Muslims sometimes come up with their own definitions of specific words that are not widely accepted. Hindus change the meaning of Dharma depending on the context, and Muslims do the same with their own terms.

Today, I had a debate in which a Muslim person told me, "A Muslim is someone who helps everyone and believes in God, but it is not necessary for them to follow Islamic theology."

After doing some research, I found that Muslim is an Arabic word derived from a form that means "the one who submits." So, does that mean a person can submit to anything? Isn't that so? According to the Oxford and Cambridge dictionaries, a Muslim is someone who follows Islam.

He defended his position by arguing that the meaning had changed over time and that the Quran had been altered.

I asked him how he knew that the Quran had been altered and how he could claim that his definition was correct.

Another argument I made was that if we consider the term JUSTICE, a country establishes laws according to its own framework and serves justice accordingly. However, ordinary people may have a different definition of justice. Although the term JUSTICE does not explain my argument very well, I still used it as an example. Perhaps you will understand my idea better after reading the next paragraph.

I believe that if a widely accepted definition of a term exists, but there is also a possibility of misinterpretation, then we should abandon that term and look for another word that expresses our intended meaning or create our own definition using a different term. This would reduce ambiguity and the chances of misinterpretation.

I found his definition of the term Muslim quite deceptive. If I had not asked him more questions about his beliefs, I might not have understood what he actually meant. I might have assumed that he followed Islamic ideology. (Perhaps he does follow it and is somewhat biased, which could explain why he is using an ambiguous term that favours his position.)

If you agree with my idea, please suggest ways to explain it more clearly and effectively. If you disagree, feel free to share your counterarguments in the comments.

Have a nice day!

​

This is one Central idea in the Bhagavad Gita; work incessantly but be not attached to it.

Swami Vivekananda says "Work but let not the action or the thought produce deep impression on the mind. Let the ripples come and go let huge actions proceed from the muscles and the brain but let them not make any deep impression on the soul. The way to achieve this is to be "unattached". Let things work , let brain centres work , work incessantly but let not a ripple conquer the mind; work as if you are a stranger in this land.. do not be bound by the work.

How practical is it in this age? It obviously requires a lot of practice.Anyone following this path can share their insights.