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There is something we are born with—an invisible presence that exists even before we learn to speak, act, or engage with the world. The world senses it, responds to it, and interacts with it—often without us doing anything at all. This silent essence shapes how we are perceived long before we consciously participate.

Like the fragrance of a flower, the aura of a lion, the danger sensed in a snake, or the allure of gold—none of them strive to project what they are. Yet the world reacts to them instantly. So too, the world responds to something innate in us—not our identity or effort, but a deeper presence.

When the world encounters the silent presence we emit, it instinctively tries to interpret this subtle energy using familiar concepts. It may label this presence as charisma, warmth, arrogance, power, innocence, or other such qualities—based purely on how it feels to those perceiving it. However, these labels are not the truth of the true-self (आत्मन्); they are mere reflections shaped by others’ perspectives, biases, and emotional states.

Each label carries with it the influence of the perceiver’s own mind and energy, projecting their fears, desires, insecurities, or admiration onto us. Thus, these names are distorted mirrors, not direct windows into our essence. They color and define us externally according to others’ internal landscapes, not according to who we truly are.

In essence, the world’s names are like shadows cast by the light of the true self—they move and change depending on where the observer stands, but they do not capture the unchanging core. The true-self (आत्मन्), pure and effortless, remains beyond these fleeting interpretations, untouched and unseen by the mind that clings to labels.

And here begins the illusion: we start to believe these names. We assume the world is responding to who we think we are, or worse, to the identity it projects onto us. But what it truly engages with is that original, effortless essence—an essence we neither create nor control, yet carry throughout our lives.

A flower does not decide to be beautiful. A snake does not choose to be feared. A lion does not try to be majestic. And yet, the world responds to them—immediately and instinctively—before any interaction takes place. This is not a response to personality; it is a response to presence, to essence.

The snake lives its life never claiming to be dangerous—never announcing threat, never demanding fear. Yet the world defines it so, projects onto it danger, deceit, and death. It becomes a symbol, not a being. This is how illusion manifests: not through the snake’s essence, but through the observer’s mind—shaped by stories, fears, and cultural memory.

In the same way, we too become victims of borrowed perceptions. A child called “difficult” starts to believe they are. A quiet person is labelled arrogant. A radiant soul is mistaken for manipulative. Slowly, we internalize these reflections, mistaking them for self-truth. We start to perform them, defend them, or suffer under them. But none of these labels originate from our essence—they are inherited shadows, distortions cast upon us by minds that never truly saw us. This is the quiet tyranny of illusion: when we are made to live a role we never wrote.

So it is with us. The world reacts first to this subtle energy we emit—what some may call आत्मन्, the true self. This is not something cultivated through learning or experience. It is born with us. It is who we are.

This presence is not visible to the ordinary self (मनः), yet it is what sets into motion the very first ripple of connection. People feel attracted, repelled, comforted, or disturbed—not by our actions or words, but by this deeper current we carry unconsciously.

And this is where illusion intensifies.

When the world reacts to our presence, the self (मनः) leaps in to claim those responses: “I am admired,” “I am feared,” “I am dismissed.” It personalizes the reflection, assuming that it was our constructed self that created the reaction. But the world never truly responded to our image. It responded to that silent aura—the true-self, आत्मन्—we ourselves barely recognize.

The illusion lies in mistaking the world’s reaction as a mirror of our identity. From that misperception, we react—and that reaction is what constitutes karma.

Karma is not what the world does to us; it is how our self (मनः) chooses to respond to the illusion the world presents.

And this is the turning point: how self (मनः) responds to another’s aura defines the outcome of karma. If the self (मनः) reacts through illusion—taking the other’s presence personally, projecting insecurity, desire, fear—then illusion deepens, and suffering unfolds. But if self (मनः) pauses, truly reflects, and recognizes how its own aura is influencing this experience—then it begins to see clearly.

Because the self (मनः) can indeed perceive other energies, but only when it becomes aware of how much its own energy colors that perception. Without that awareness, it projects confusion. With that awareness, it discerns truth.

And only then does action align—not with ego, not with illusion, but with the vast intelligence of the supreme (परमात्मनः). In such action, karma does not bind. It flows as dharma (धर्म).

This aura—this true-self (आत्मन्)—can never be grasped by the reactive self (मनः), for the self (मनः) dwells within the mirror of appearances. As long as we are entangled in illusion, mistaken identity for essence, the true self remains hidden. Just as a mirror cannot reflect itself, self (मनः) cannot comprehend its own origin.

Only when we rise above illusion—when we stop reacting to reflections—does witnessing begin. And with that witnessing, a stillness unfolds. The ego steps aside, and what remains is pure awareness. From that space, the true self is no longer a concept or a role—it is unmoving, unchanging, timeless. It does not seek recognition, validation, or control. It simply is.

And this is the grace: once seen, the aura—the energy that once shaped so much of our worldly experience—no longer holds us captive. It becomes light. The dance of reaction and response continues, but the dancer is no longer entangled. One becomes free—not in the world's eyes, but in the truth of one's own being.

The true self is not a treasure to be acquired. It is what remains when illusion dissolves. It cannot be named or described, because every name is yet another shadow. It can only be witnessed. And in that witnessing, life becomes clear—not easier, not safer, but luminously clear.

You begin to walk not as a persona, but as a presence itself—untouched by the drama around you, yet in perfect rhythm with it.

While true-self (आत्मन्) itself is subtle and beyond direct perception by the ordinary मनः (self), it manifests its presence visibly through the world’s spontaneous responses to us, especially when we are not acting or trying to project anything.

This visibility is not through the mind’s concepts or judgments, but through the natural, effortless effect our silent presence creates in others and in the environment. Just as the fragrance of a flower or the silent majesty of a lion is “seen” without deliberate action, our true-self (आत्मन्) is revealed by the way the world reacts—even before we speak, behave, or engage.

This “inaction” or effortless being becomes the mirror reflecting the true self, because the reactions it evokes are free from the distortions of personality, effort, or identity. In this way, the true-self (आत्मन्) is not hidden—it is visible in the resonance we naturally emit. The world’s response to our inaction is a living proof of our true nature.

Hence, to witness the true-self (आत्मन्), one need not seek or create; one need only attend quietly to these spontaneous responses and learn to differentiate them from the mental narratives that arise afterward. This discernment allows the observer to see the true self through the clear lens of natural presence, grounding the invisible in the visible.

This is the journey—not to become, but to un-become. Not to define the self through self (मनः), but to witness what has always been quietly present—the true-self (आत्मन्), silent, whole, and complete.

The Paradox of the World’s Knowing and the Self’s Blindness:

The world, in its way, recognizes the true self (आत्मन्). It responds instinctively to this silent presence even before we act or speak. This shows that on some level, the world “knows” us—not through concepts or judgments, but through a subtle energetic resonance.

Yet the world cannot truly interpret this presence. The labels it assigns—charisma, arrogance, warmth—are filtered through its own mental constructs and conditioned perceptions. The world’s understanding is partial and distorted, unable to grasp the true essence that is beyond names and forms.

Here lies the paradox: I—the self—cannot fully see or know this true self either, unless I am immersed in the illusions of the mind (मन) or guided by it. The ordinary mind is caught in the play of identities, projections, and reactions. It is both the source of our confusion and the instrument through which knowledge of self must emerge.

The आत्मन् remains hidden, silent, and pure, visible only through the mirror of illusion and mental reflection. Without the mind’s activity, there is no conceptual knowing; without the mind’s awareness, there is no seeing past illusion.

So, to know the true self is to navigate this paradox, Maya (माया): the illusion that veils reality, presenting the unreal as real. To know the true Self, one must navigate this paradox — to discern the real amidst the unreal, to witness essence behind appearance, and to transcend the mind’s distortions while skillfully using it as a tool for realization.