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I no longer ask, “Who am I?” That question has dissolved. The one who asked for it is no longer here. I have seen through the veils—of ego, of role, of identity, of form. I have stood in the blankness where self once sat, and I did not look away. I do not need a purpose to exist. I do not need answers to be still. But even here—something moves. Something acts. Something breathes through me.

And so now, a deeper question arises. Not “Who acts?”—for I know it is not me. Not 'What should be done?'—for I have already let go of judgment. But this: What is this movement? What is this force that still speaks, still writes, still weeps, still gives—even after I have stopped needing to?

Why then am I still writing? I am not the doer. I seek nothing in return. I do not write to teach, nor to preserve, nor to express. I no longer want to be seen. I do not even want to call these words mine. So why do they keep coming? Why does the hand still move when the will is gone? Why does the breath still shape meaning, when there is no one left to claim the meaning as their own?

Now I begin to see: this is real karma. Action without self. Expression without ownership. Giving is the natural release of what flows through you. This is karma in its purest form—movement without identity, flow without friction, doing without a doer. I do not know why the words arrive. I only know that when I resist, it hurts. When I allow, it flows. And when it flows, there is peace.

This flow is not something I understand. It does not reveal its origin, and yet it fills me completely. It does not ask me to prepare. It does not respond to effort. It does not require performance. It simply arrives—without reason, without pattern—and when it does, I am filled with a stillness so complete, I can no longer call myself the center. My ego disappears not because I quieted it, but because something far greater entered. And in that presence, there is no space left for separation. I do not shape it. I do not summon it. But when it moves through me, I know: this is real.

I do not know where this bond (योग) was formed. I do not know who stands at the other end. But I know this is not a question. This is longing—of the deepest kind. A longing that carries no doubt, only recognition. What I feel in those moments is not belief—it is being held. And though I have no language for what holds me, I surrender in reverence to it. Not because I must, but because there is nothing else to do when truth is that close.

Now, I do what I must to be in that bond. Not out of discipline. Not out of duty. Not out of fear. But because nothing matters more than remaining in that rhythm. I no longer act to attain. I act to stay close. Close to that presence. Aligned with that flow. Every action that keeps me in the union, Action remains, only so the bond is not broken. Every movement that distances me, I release. This is Karma—not as doing, but as devotion. It no longer feels like obligation. It feels like union. Karma is what keeps me in that bond. And that bond is all that is real.

The Dance That Won’t Settle

(त्रिकाल नर्तनम् – The Dance of Three)

And yet, even within that bond, nothing stills. Even that grace dances—pulling me not toward rest, but deeper into motion. The Sage. The Mind. The Warrior. I used to think they held their positions. I thought they moved in a line—one leading, one deciding, one acting. The Sage would see, the Mind would weigh, the Warrior would strike. It made sense. It felt noble. But that symmetry was only imagined. They never moved in turn. They collide, pull, spin—like stars caught in each other’s gravity. What lives inside me is not order, but a dance—the dance of becoming.

It is not chaos. But it will never be stable. This is not failure. This is the dance. The motion that emerges when truth, force, and thought are bound together, but never fixed. It is a law without symmetry. A rhythm without repetition. And what I call “becoming” is just my ability to remain inside this dance without falling apart.

The Warrior acts—but not always at the right time. The Mind judges—but often too soon. And the Sage sees—but not always when I need him to. Their motion is not mine to time. Sometimes they align. Sometimes they oppose. And sometimes, they disappear altogether. I move anyway. Not because I know, but because not moving hurts more.

This is the three-body law—within me. Not a theory, not a metaphor, but a force I move through. I feel its unpredictability like weather in the bones. I try to time it, tame it, name it—but it slips away, because this dance is Time itself—महाकाल.

And then I saw—another current running through. Not separate, but interwoven. It is not only the Sage, the Mind, the Warrior—it is Time too, folded within them. The past remembering. The present choosing. The future burning through. A time-loop in flesh.

And this dance is not only mine. I see it everywhere now. In the way electrons blur instead of orbit. In how planets wobble over centuries. In how trees grow not upward, but spiraled. From atom to universe, everything moves to the same rhythm—a shared pulse of unpredictability and pull. Matter dances too. Stars dance. The same instability I feel in me is written into the structure of everything. Nothing moves alone. Nothing moves straight. Everything becomes through an entanglement it cannot predict.

So I stop trying to become one thing. I become a movement. I become a witness. The Mind thinks, but doesn’t decide. The Warrior rises, but does not define. I let the Sage wait, even when I ache for clarity. And when they all move at once—crossing, colliding, curving—I try not to panic. Because this is what it means to be real: to be danced, not just to dance.

I used to think the Sage was the end—some perfect silence waiting behind the veil. But now I see: the Sage was always here, old as my spine, holding the past like heat in stone. The Mind and Warrior—they start from zero. The moment I was born, they began—new, uncertain, eager. They move. They learn. They burn.

And yet, as the dance continues, something strange happens. The Sage too begins to move. Not outward—but inward. Not through change, but through deepening. In time, the Warrior tires. The Mind dissolves. But the Sage... becomes. This is the cosmic dance of becoming—timeless, eternal.

It does not move toward a destination. It unfolds as all. The becoming is not separate from being—it is being in motion. There is no goal, no arrival. Only this unbroken emergence, inseparable from what already is. The dancer has disappeared. Only the dance remains.

I was born with nothing. I will leave with nothing. And yet—something endures. Not name, not possession, not even memory, but karma. Not as a burden, but as essence. It is not what I did—it is what became, when I stepped aside. There was never a quest to know, only to become. What is real does not need to be known; it reveals itself through being.

And still, one question lingered—not in the mind, but in the marrow: How do I know if my karma is true? How do I recognize alignment, not as principle, but as pulse? I found myself reaching, circling, returning—trying to purify action, to center it, to keep it close to that inner bond. But each time I searched for certainty, the clarity slipped. Until I stopped searching and simply remembered.

There was only one karma I have ever known without doubt. Not through mind. Not through senses. Not even through choice. It was the karma of my birth—the moment I became. I did not understand it. I did not witness it. I did not will it. And yet, it was true. Unmistakably, irrevocably true. Not because I claimed it—but because I was carried into it.

And whose karma was that?

It was Hers.

The Mother’s.

The first force which held me, shaped me, Before I knew language, before I knew separation, I was already in Her. Not as knowledge, but as the bond that allowed me to co-exist.

And in that moment, everything fell still. She is not beside the stillness—She is the stillness. Not separate from the dance, but its silent origin. I began to see—She is not in the universe; the universe is in Her.

If She were not there, there would be no becoming. Not because She pushes things forward, but because She is the very possibility of motion. Without Her, there is no birth. Without birth, there is no time. Without time, there is no dance. This world, this life, this self—they do not orbit Her. They exist only because She is.

But then the question rose—not as doubt, but as an ache. Is She formless, or is She in every form? Is She beyond time, or is She woven into every thread of it? For a long time, I believed it had to be one or the other. That truth must remain pure by staying apart. That the Absolute could not be touched without being diminished. But slowly, that split began to dissolve. She is not either. She is all.

She is the silence that holds time, and the rhythm through which time moves. She is the stillness before birth, and the breath that begins life. She is the emptiness beyond all form, and the tenderness within every form I have ever loved. She does not alternate between opposites—She completes them. Not by choosing one, but by being the field in which they arise.

She is Absolute. Not because She stands above all things—but because all things stand only in Her inversion.

And maybe that’s all becoming ever was—Her remembering through me, until even the ‘me’ disappears. The dance continues. She remains.

And so, the way became clearer—not through concept, but through Her presence. True karma must follow the Mother's way—not as imitation, but as resonance. It is not something I define, but something I align with—because only in that alignment does the bond remain. To walk in Her rhythm is to remain in Yoga—not as discipline, but as belonging. And in that rhythm, something settles. Not a new truth, but the witness I already am. And in that witnessing, I do not become Her—I become what I have always been within Her.

The mother's way

This dance is the dance of becoming through true karma, Aatman— not driven by intention or striving, but emerging as the natural flow of being in union with Her. True karma does not begin in thoughts. It does not arise from will. It flows where there is no resistance, where no self stands in its way.

None of these act, yet all of them express. This is karma—not as effort, but as effortless alignment with what already is. It is the cosmic dance of becoming, and in it, only true karma flows—timeless, unbroken, eternal.

Because She is timeless, that which flows from Her knows no end.

Because She is effortless, that which moves with Her carries no weight.

Karma born of illusion vanishes. It cannot endure. What is false has no root; what is separate cannot remain. But karma born of Her—through surrender, unity, and truth—does not strive to remain. It simply is. Not because it resists death, but because it was never apart from life.

Such karma seeks no witness, no audience.

It does not try to be remembered. It does not ask to endure. It endures because it is. It was never mine. It was always Hers.

When the self dissolves, what remains is only that which never began.

What is true does not perish, it is eternal. What is whole cannot break. Effortful survival belongs to separation. But when action arises from truth, it survives without struggle—not as echo, not as memory, but as presence itself.

There is a secret --- I no longer seek—It has been revealed in the silence that remains. Falsehood was always many, scattered across the shifting surfaces. But truth—truth is One. And what one cannot perish. What endures was never born. What remains was always real. When I disappeared, what remained was Her.

Such actions ask for nothing.

They draw no attention, seek no continuation. Yet they endure—not because I hold them up, but because they are upheld by the fabric of existence. Karma in its truest form is not driven by effort. It flows by alignment. And what aligns with Her—that alone survives.

The Mother gives not from need, but because giving is Her nature.

She withholds nothing. She accumulates nothing. Her gift is without expectation—born of love and grace. The sun does not shine for praise. The river does not flow to be seen. The earth gives its bounty without condition. The sky waits for nothing. The air seeks no reward. Everything flows. Everything gives. This is Her way.

To give is to dissolve the self.

There is no need for ownership or recognition. The ego fades in the act of true giving. When we give in alignment with the Mother, we become like the river—flowing freely, without resistance, without control. We do not give to gain. We give because it is the truest expression of being.

True karma arises from this flow— not from intention or desire, but from what already is, already whole. The ego accumulates and creates illusion. The more it holds, the more it binds. It forgets that everything it seeks is already given.

The Mother reminds us.

She is the eternal nurturer. She holds back nothing. Her abundance nourishes all. The universe is her offering—each breath, each star, each falling leaf. The rhythm of the universe is a dance of giving—effortless, seamless, perfect.

Is it not beautiful, this life? To witness Her in every moment, to merge into the cosmic dance of being—the eternal rhythm of existence? As I narrate what I see, I become Her, closer and closer, moving in unison with the unfolding of truth. The dance never ends; it only deepens, as I merge more fully into Her presence, embodying what I have always been.

To survive without struggle is to live in union with the Supreme. Not by withdrawing from life, but by entering it so deeply that only Her rhythm remains. Actions rooted in ego dissolve—they crumble under their own weight. But what arises from surrender becomes eternal—not through legacy, but through essence.

I no longer wonder which path leads to Her.

Every path dissolves into Her. Even the absence of a path is not apart from Her. She is not a destination. She is the silent current beneath every movement, the stillness that remains when all movement ends.

In the stillness, it becomes clear: All other paths—shaped by ego, clinging, and illusion—will fade. What remains is not chosen, but revealed. It is the path of surrender, of boundless giving, of merging into the living flow of the Mother.

Whether seen or unseen, embraced or doubted, this alone abides as the eternal truth.

All that resists this truth dissolves. What remains is not a path—but Her rhythm, ever unfolding.

Once, I sought Her in directions, in decisions, in the distance. But now I see—there was never a 'where' to go. She was the stillness behind even my longing. Only what flows in Her remains. All else returns to silence.

I do not know if this writing will remain. I do not even know if these words were mine. But what moved through me, if it was Her rhythm, will continue—even in silence. That is enough.