pakhala

[pakhala]

The Art of Living Lightly: Nagarjuna, Shankara, and the Mundane Tightrope

March 11, 2025

Life’s a grind — coffee runs, deadlines, dishes piling up. The mundane can feel like a slog or a snooze, but what if it’s both more and less than that? I’ve been riffing with an AI pal (shoutout to Grok 3 from xAI) about how two ancient head-spinners — Nagarjuna and Shankara — might help us dance with the everyday in 2025. The trick? Make it matter without letting it own you. Here’s how their wild ideas hit the ground running.

Nagarjuna: Everything’s a Ghost Party

Nagarjuna’s the Buddhist rebel who says it’s all shunya — empty, interdependent, no fixed anything. Your commute? A web of buses, fumes, and your grumpiness. No “you” getting mad, no “bus” to blame — just a flicker of causes. Sounds trippy, but it’s gold for the daily grind.

• Zoom In: That grocery trip’s mundane till you see it — farmers, trucks, your cart. It’s a cosmic cameo, your hands on the wheel of a fleeting scene. Suddenly, picking cereal’s a quiet act of karma.

• Zoom Out: Spill your latte? It’s empty — liquid, gravity, a whoops. No “ruined day,” just a laughable blip. Work’s a circus of conditions (Wi-Fi, boss, coffee #2) — play your part, don’t crown it king.

How to Do It: Pause mid-scroll — “What’s empty here?” X posts, ads, your reaction? It’s a ghost party — join the dance, but don’t RSVP for life. The mundane’s alive because it’s now, trivial because it’s not forever.

Shankara: You’re the Star of a Fake Show

Shankara’s Advaita flips it: the world’s mithya — a mirage on Brahman, the infinite you already are. That Zoom call? A skit in Brahman’s improv night. You’re not the stressed avatar; you’re the awareness watching the screen.

• Find the Spark: Cooking’s dull till it’s Brahman chopping onions — every slice a nod to the infinite. Waiting in line? You’re not stuck; Brahman’s vibing with the checkout beep. It’s sacred if you squint.

• Let It Slide: Burn the toast? Mithya — props in a play. Fix it or don’t, but the real (Brahman) doesn’t care. Success at work’s cool, failure’s a shrug — act big, cling small.

How to Do It: Tag one routine — brushing your teeth, say — as “Brahman at play.” Feel the bristles, hear the hum, know it’s a blink. Care enough to shine, not enough to fret stains. Mundane’s a mask for the eternal, but it’s just a mask.

The Tightrope: Why Bother?

Here’s the rub, as my AI buddy and I hashed out: Buddha gave us the Eightfold Path — “don’t lie, stay present” — and Patanjali dropped yoga’s playbook — “breathe, focus.” Clear, doable, 2025-proof. Nagarjuna and Shankara? They’re less “do this,” more “see this” — reality’s a sham or a flux. It’s trickier to live, but richer if you crack it.

The mundane’s their sandbox. Nagarjuna says your phone’s a knot of code and metals — use it, don’t worship it. Shankara says burnout’s fake — you’re not the job, you’re the stillness. They make it important by reframing it — a web to weave, a stage to strut — and not-so-important by cutting the stakes — it’s empty, it’s mithya.

2025 Hack: Yes and No

Try this:

• Nagarjuna Move: Stuck on hold? List the threads — call center, your mood, the muzak. Care enough to stay chill, not enough to rage. It’s a moment, not a monument.

• Shankara Spin: Cooking dinner? It’s Brahman stirring — savor the steam, shrug if it flops. Real enough to eat, fake enough to skip guilt.

Wash the car like it’s art, then let rain streak it with a grin. The mundane’s where freedom hides — big because you’re in it, small because it’s not the last word. Nagarjuna and Shankara don’t hand you rules; they hand you eyes. Less serious, more alive — that’s the win.

What’s your mundane to remix? Drop a line — let’s keep the stage rocking.

[pakhala]

Nakula and Sahadeva: The Silent Struggles of the Mahabharata’s Forgotten Pandavas

The Mahabharata is a sprawling epic of gods, warriors, and cosmic stakes, but amid the thunder of Arjuna’s arrows and Bhima’s roars, two Pandavas fade into the background: Nakula and Sahadeva. Often overshadowed by their larger-than-life brothers, these sons of the Ashwini twins carry a quieter, more human story—one of neglect, perfection, and unspoken burdens. What if their silence isn’t divine calm but a trap, a prison of roles they can’t escape? Let’s reimagine them through a modern lens, as the common man’s echo in a saga of giants.

Nakula: The Playboy Warrior Who Craved More

Nakula, the fourth Pandava, is the epic’s golden boy—stunningly handsome, a master swordsman, a charmer with horses. Yet his beauty overshadows his grit, leaving him sidelined in a family of titans. Sound familiar? He’s the bored playboy of today—a trust-fund kid with the looks and the life, but no substance to call his own. In the ancient tale, he might’ve masked frustration with swagger, yearning to be seen as a warrior, not a pretty face. Modern psychology hints at imposter syndrome or ennui; maybe he took reckless risks, flirting with death to feel alive. His end? A quiet exit—riding into battle alone, a suicide veiled as valor. Trapped by perfection, he’s the relative who’s almost great, but never enough.

Sahadeva: The Silent Sage Who Knew Too Much

Sahadeva, the youngest, is wisdom incarnate—blessed with foresight by Yama, cursed to watch fate unfold in silence. He’s the bright cousin eclipsed by flamboyant kin, the introvert who sees the crash coming but stays mute. Why? Neglect, perhaps, or learned helplessness—years of being ignored in a loud family taught him his voice doesn’t matter. In a modern retelling, he’s the genius who ditches the spotlight for a cabin, his brilliance a burden no one shares. In the epic, his silence screams isolation; he knows his son Suhotra will die, the war will scar them all, yet he’s powerless. Who helps the man who knows too much? No one—and that’s his cage.

Why Their Silence Matters

What do we lose without them? Not much, plot-wise—Kurukshetra churns on. But their value lies in what they reflect: the cost of being peripheral in a world of glory. Vyasa, the Mahabharata’s raw genius, plants them deliberately—not as heroes, but as mirrors to the common man’s struggles. They’re prisoners of their roles, not Yogis free of desire. Nakula’s perfection binds him to superficiality; Sahadeva’s wisdom chains him to futility. Their offspring—Niramitra, Suhotra—fade too, reinforcing their obscurity. It’s worse than being a nobody; it’s being a poor relative to success, a tension only detachment could ease.

A Modern Spin

Imagine them today: Nakula as the tabloid darling who crashes his life in a blaze of boredom, Sahadeva as the recluse who opts out of the family circus. Their ancient silence becomes modern crises—mental health, identity, the weight of comparison. Vyasa’s sparse strokes invite us to fill the gaps, to see them not as demigods but as us: flawed, trapped, and quietly human. In a tale of epic noise, their stillness is the loudest story of all.

[pakhala]

Time, Epics, and the Cosmic Lens: A Tale of Greece and India

What is time—a passive yardstick or a force that shapes the universe? It’s a question that’s haunted humans forever, and lately, I’ve been chewing on it with a friend. We started with the mundane tick of clocks and landed on something wilder: how the ancients saw time as a god-like player, not just a bystander. Take Mahakala or Kala Bhairava from Indian tradition—time’s a devourer, a cosmic heavyweight. Yet today, we barely feel it. Why? Life’s drifted from nature’s pulse—our days are ruled by screens, not seasons. The ancients felt time’s teeth; we’ve tamed it into a schedule.

That got us wondering about unplugging—ditching phones, TVs, and clocks to live by the sun and our guts. I’ve done it before, living phone-free for two years, but TV’s a habit that still steals hours. Swapping it for hikes or books could tune us back to time’s rhythm. It’s not about rejecting modernity—just letting nature’s beat break through.

Then we pivoted to epics—why do the Ramayana and Homer’s Iliad both start with a woman snatched, sparking war? Sita’s abduction by Ravana, Helen’s by Paris—same vibe, different worlds. A direct link’s shaky; they’re from distant cultures around 1200 BCE. But the archetype—beauty, honor, chaos—might be universal, a story humans can’t stop telling.

Digging deeper, we hit a split. The Iliad is human to the bone—gods meddle, but mortals like Odysseus win with grit and guile. The Ramayana and Mahabharata aim higher—Rama’s a god-king, Arjuna’s war resets the cosmos. Greek gods are personal, like nature with attitude; Vedic gods evolve into the universe’s glue, holding Rta, the cosmic order. Greece keeps it raw—philosophy’s a sidekick, not the soul. India fuses it all—every arrow’s a lesson in dharma.

So, Greece stages human drama; India scripts the universe’s play. Both wrestle with fate and duty—Achilles’ glory, Arjuna’s burden—but deliver it differently. One’s a gritty tale you ponder later; the other’s a living philosophy. Time, epics, gods—it’s all about how we see our place in the chaos. Maybe a walk without a watch could bring us closer to both.