Larger than self

Larger than I

One must be beyond blessed to feel things deeply and move accordingly. It’s a luxury in a world where everything is practiced in moderation. 

It takes skill to calculate and move - a very kaliyuga-coded skill. After all, how does one navigate if everything moves them? Lost in motion, consumed by dominant energies. It is a useful skill. But this write-up isn’t about that.

It’s about the people who lack it.

Artists.

By “artists,” I don’t mean only those who draw or paint. Being an artist is a mindset. An engineer is an artist. A businessman is an artist. It’s about how you shape your life and contribute to the world through it.

So what does it feel like to be one?

Everything.

Everything feels heightened. What a bittersweet gift it is to be sensitive. Carrying imprints. Trying to transmute pain, anger, and love. Why can’t we just act nonchalant?

“Because, my friend,” said a wise old man sitting on the banks of the Ganga, “being nonchalant comes with a cost. The intensity only grows with time. It returns tenfold and you’ll end up like me, in sweet vairagya, immersed in nama japam, trying to forget and remember at the same time, answering random questions about life.”

The spiritual side of me found that ending comforting. But the moha-maya-filled part of me still wanted to experience life in its rawest form. Not escaping , only experiencing.

While simmering in a deadly loop of possibilities and self-doubt, a hand reached out to pull me free.

The good ego.

Her name was Nanda.

Nanda held my hand and guided me out of the loop. She didn’t speak much. She didn’t sing or hand me something to read. She simply walked with me , quietly, carefully, lovingly , toward the mountains.

There I stood, still, facing the mighty Himalayas, trying to fill my eyes with their beauty.

Nanda nudged me.

“What do you see, seeker?” she asked.

“Mountains. Big mountains.”

“What do you think they see?”

“Wait… they can see?”

She smirked. “Maybe.”

I sat there, shivering , not from the cold, but from thought. Nanda built a small fire using nearby twigs and made us tea. The warmth settled into my chest. Something softened. Something shifted.

She whispered, “Now tell me. What do you see?”

“They’re mighty. Strong. Standing their ground despite all turbulence. Just standing there… facing everything like a bawse. I wish I was like the Himalayas.”

Nanda smiled.

“Who said you are not? Remember who you are. Most importantly , let things be. Allow life to flow through you, but don’t try to control the flow. It’s divine. Not meant to be disturbed. Be the channel, not the remote. Just be.”

She spoke like someone who had lived many lifetimes.

I finished my tea and turned to ask her one last question.
“By the way… what’s the name of this mountain?”

She was gone.

No trace. No footsteps. Only silence.

I returned to the wise old man by the Ganga and told him everything. Without a word, he pulled out a picture of the same mountain. Beneath it was written:

Nanda Devi.

I froze.

It was her.

Nanda Devi herself , a form of Parvati Devi.

She held my hand to show me what it means to be larger than identity. To think beyond what I need to do and move toward what needs to be done.

The old man laughed.
“Still want to be nonchalant?”

I smiled. “What’s the fun in that?”

And we laughed together.

I walked away listening to Alakh Niranjan. And somehow… it all made sense.

Or at least it did for the moment.

Because the loops never truly end.
And the hands always extend.

Wow. That rhymes.