This is a personal story about how the ancient Ashtavakra philosophy healed my childhood trauma and changed my approach to corporate life.
I was 6 or 7 years old when I first realized that objects far away from me were not looking clear. The first sign was visible in my classroom, where the letters on the blackboard became hazy.
My teachers reported this to my family, and my Papa took me to an eye doctor. He revealed that I had Myopia and would need to wear glasses for the rest of my life. A big, round frame became my constant companion.
But this led to another problem. I became different from the rest of the kids in my class and neighborhood. And as the unwritten rulebook of childhood says: mock anyone who is different.
They teased me. They called me names like “blind-ass” among several others. It felt so humiliating that I avoided specific streets near my home just to not be seen. But how could I avoid my class?
First, I was poor in studies. Second, I looked different with my glasses. I was a readymade joke whenever someone wanted to have a laugh. I told my trauma to my mother, but nothing concrete was done to help my situation. How do you stop the words of other mocking kids? I accepted the humiliation as part of my life and decided to do nothing.
More than 30 years later, I read the story of a boy whose body was bent in eight places. He was named Ashtavakra(literally meaning “eight bends”). The person who named him enjoyed dark humor, I guess.
Reading about him and his philosophy acted like medicine. Some old wounds were finally disinfected. I felt peace. And then it occurred to me that there might be people like me at different stages of their lives, trying to fight the different situations.
I must share my medicine.
Ashtavakra: The Story
There was a boy named Ashtavakra. But he didn’t look like the other kids. He was born with a severe disability; his body was twisted in eight different places. He walked with a heavy limp and looked very different.
One day, he heard there was a contest for the smartest people in the kingdom at the King’s palace. He wanted to go.
When he walked into the royal court, the room went silent. It was filled with the country’s most famous scholars and professors. They took one look at his twisted walking style and his strange shape, and they started giggling. Then the giggles turned into loud laughter. The smartest adults in the world were bullying a 12-year-old boy.
But then, something shocking happened. Ashtavakra started laughing even louder than them.
The King was confused. He stopped the room and asked, “Boy, the scholars are laughing at your body. But why are YOU laughing?”
Ashtavakra wiped a tear from his eye and said: “I laughed because I made a mistake. I thought I came to a meeting of wise men. But I see I am only sitting among shoemakers.”
The King was shocked. “Shoemakers? These are royal scholars!”
Ashtavakra replied: “A shoemaker is an expert in leather and skin. These men only looked at my skin. They didn’t see ME. They only saw the package I came in.”
The entire room went dead silent. The boy had taught the adults the biggest lesson of their lives.
Ashtavakra Philosophy for a 12-Year-Old (The Gamer Analogy)
Imagine your video game where you have a character on the screen. Maybe it’s a soldier, or a wizard, or a race car driver. Ashtavakra explains that:
The Body is the Avatar: Sometimes your character gets hit, falls off a cliff, or looks funny.
You are the Player (Awareness): You are holding the controller. If your character falls in the mud, you don’t get muddy, do you? You are just watching it happen on the screen.
Ashtavakra knew a secret that the scholars didn’t. He knew that his body was just the Avatar—it was twisted and bent. But he knew HE was the Player holding the controller. The scholars were dumb because they thought the Avatar was real. They forgot about the Player.
To make you feel this (not just think it), try this 60-second experiment. It’s a physical way to teach “I am not the body.”
The “Statue” Challenge
Freeze: Sit in a chair and freeze like a statue. You cannot move a muscle.
The Itch: In a moment, your body might want to move. Your nose might itch, or your leg might twitch. Don’t move.
The Watcher: Ask yourself, “Can I feel my leg wanting to move?” (You will say yes).
The Punchline: Okay, if you can feel your leg, that means you are not the leg. You are the one listening to the leg. That ‘listener’ is the Real You. That is the Player. The leg is just the Avatar.
The Takeaway for a 12-year-old: “Next time someone says something mean about your clothes, your hair, or your grades, just remember: They are judging your Avatar. The Player is safe at home, holding the controller, totally fine.”
Where is the Player in Real Life?
The obvious question arises: for a video game, it is easy to imagine a player, but in real life, where is the player?
1. The “Camera” Analogy (The Logic)
This thirst can be quenched using the Camera analogy. Imagine using a camera and ask yourself:
The camera can see the trees.
The camera can see the buildings.
The camera can even see your own hands and feet moving in the frame.
But can the camera turn around and take a picture of itself?
The obvious answer is NO.
The Lesson: “The camera can never see itself, because it IS the seer. You cannot find the Player because YOU AREthe Player. You are the invisible camera looking out through your eyes.”
2. The Experiment (The “Finger Pointing” Game)
This is a fun, physical way to prove you are “invisible” to yourself (a technique often used by the philosopher Douglas Harding).
Point Out: Point at the wall. Ask yourself, “What do I see?” (A wall).
Point Down: Point at your chest. Ask yourself, “What do I see?” (My shirt/chest).
Point In: Now, point your finger right at your own face, right between your eyes.
The Question: Ask yourself, “Now, look at where my finger is pointing. On present evidence, do I see a face there? Or do I see a transparent open space that is seeing the finger?”
The Insight: “You see? In your own experience, you don’t have a head right now. You just have a ‘window’ that the world is pouring into. That empty, clear window? That is the Player.”
3. The “Silent Room” Analogy (For a Quieter Mood)
If you like the idea of “Space,” try this: “Imagine this room is full of furniture (thoughts, feelings, your body). If we take all the furniture out, what is left?” (You will say: Nothing / Empty space).
“Exactly. The Space is the Player. The Space allows the furniture to be there, but the Space doesn’t get hurt if the furniture breaks. You are the Space inside which your thoughts and body are moving.”
Ashtavakra Philosophy in Corporate Culture
This is the ultimate test of the philosophy. It is easy to be a “Witness” in a quiet room; it is very hard to be a Witness when your livelihood is threatened by a toxic boss.
Here is how you apply the Ashtavakra (Player/Avatar) framework to survive and outmaneuver a ruthless, political boss without losing your sanity.
1. Diagnose the Boss: “The Panic-Stricken Gamer”
First, use the Cobbler insight. Your boss is obsessed with image, politics, and ruining others to look good. Why?
The Diagnosis: He has completely forgotten he is the Player. He thinks he IS the Avatar.
He believes that if his title, reputation, or “image” gets dented, he actually dies. That is why he is ruthless. He is acting out of deep, existential terror.
Your Shift: Instead of seeing him as a “Monster,” see him as a “Madman” who thinks the video game is real life. He is a “Cobbler” who only knows how to judge the skin (status/image).
Effect: This shifts your internal reaction from Fear/Anger → Pity/Clinical Observation.
2. The Strategy: Protect the Avatar, Detach the Player
You cannot just “ignore” him (that will get you fired). You have to play the game, but you play it differently.
The Trap: Usually, when he attacks your work (your Avatar), you feel your soul (the Player) is being attacked. You react emotionally, get defensive, or get depressed. This is exactly what a political boss wants—an emotional reaction he can use against you.
The Ashtavakra Move:
The Player (You): Remains the “Camera.” You watch him scream. You watch him play politics. You do not absorb his poison. You say internally: “The camera is recording a man having a tantrum.”
The Avatar (Your Role): Since the Player is calm, the Avatar can move faster and smarter.
Document Everything: Because you aren’t emotional, you are clinical. You save emails. You record dates. You build your case.
Don’t React, Respond: When he tries to provoke you to enhance his image, you give him nothing. You become a “Grey Rock”—boring, professional, unreactive. He cannot play off you if you don’t bounce back.
3. The Mantra: “He is Screaming at the Screen”
When he tries to ruin your reputation to boost his own, visualize this: Imagine he is a kid screaming at a TV screen because his character is losing points. You are standing behind the couch watching him scream. Does his screaming hurt you? No. It’s just noise in the room.
4. Practical Application (The “Corporate Cobbler” Technique)
Next time he pulls a political stunt:
Pause (The 120-Second Rule): Do not react immediately.
Separate: Tell yourself, “He is judging the skin (the project/image). He cannot touch the Player.”
The Counter-Move: Because you are not blinded by anger, ask: “What is the most strategic move for my Avatar right now?”
Maybe it’s cc’ing his boss.
Maybe it’s letting him fail.
Maybe it’s smiling and saying, “Understood,” while you plan your exit.
Ashtavakra Philosophy in Family Situations
Applying the “Player vs. Avatar” (Witness) principle at home is the “Advanced Level.” It is easy to be a witness when sitting alone in meditation. It is much harder when your toddler is screaming or your spouse is upset with you because our emotional attachment to our family is the strongest glue in the world.
Here is how to bring Ashtavakra into the living room without becoming a cold, detached robot.
1. The Dynamic with the Spouse: “The Actor on Stage”
In a marriage, most arguments happen between two Avatars.
Your Avatar: The Husband who thinks, “I work hard, I deserve peace.”
Her Avatar: The Wife who thinks, “I am overwhelmed, I need support.”
When these two Avatars clash, it is just “My script vs. Your script.”
The Shift: When a conflict starts (e.g., she criticizes you for forgetting something), do not let your Avatar hijack the controls.
The Trap: Your Avatar wants to defend its image (“I am not lazy!”). This fuels the fire.
The Player Move: Step back into the “Camera” mode. View the situation as a scene in a movie.
See Her Player: Realize that she is not the angry words. She is a fellow Player who is currently stressed, tired, or hurt. Her Avatar is lashing out because it is in pain.
The Response: Because you aren’t defending your own Avatar’s ego, you can actually listen. You can say, “I see you are upset,” instead of “Stop yelling at me.”
Result: You stop being a Reactive Mirror (reflecting anger back) and become a Cushion (absorbing the shock).
2. The Dynamic with the Kids: “The Sky and the Storm”
Toddlers are the ultimate Zen masters because they live entirely in the moment, but they are also pure chaos.
The Scenario: Your son throws a massive tantrum because his cracker broke in half.
Avatar Reaction: You feel embarrassed, annoyed, or angry. You think, “He is being a brat. I am a bad parent if I can’t control him.”
Player Perspective: You are the Sky; his tantrum is a passing Thunderstorm. The Sky does not get wet or damaged by the storm. It just holds the space for it.
If you stay as the Sky (calm, present), the storm passes quickly.
If you join the storm (yell back), you just create a hurricane.
Practical Exercise: Next time he plays, watch him. Really watch him. Notice that he isn’t worrying about tomorrow or regretting yesterday. He is pure “Player.” Tell yourself: “He is closer to Ashtavakra than I am. I am the one who needs to unlearn.”
3. The “Cobbler” Trap in Parenting
Ashtavakra warned against being a “Cobbler” (judging the skin/form).
The Danger: We often behave like Cobblers with our own kids. We judge their grades, their manners, their messiness. We try to perfect their “Avatar” so society approves of them.
The Wisdom: Remember that your job is not just to polish the Avatar (manners/skills), but to protect their connection to the Player.
When you look at your child, try to see the consciousness looking out of their eyes, not just the “small body” that belongs to you. This changes “control” into “guidance.”
Summary for the Household: The goal isn’t to be distant. The goal is to be spacious.
Without Awareness: The house is crowded with Egos bumping into each other.
With Awareness: You create “space” around the chaos. You become the stable center that your wife and kids can lean on.
Ashtavakra Philosophy for a Couple at 60
At 60, this philosophy isn’t just a “coping mechanism”—it becomes a necessity. In the Indian tradition, this phase is called Vanaprastha (the “forest dweller” or retiring stage).
For a couple at 60, the “Avatar” is undergoing a massive shedding process. The roles that defined you for 30 years (Active Parent, Provider, Manager) are falling away. If you think you are the Avatar, this creates a crisis. If you know you are the Player, it creates a “Second Youth.”
Here is how the “Player vs. Avatar” applies to the specific challenges of this age:
1. The “Retired” Avatar (Identity Crisis)
For the husband (and often the wife), the Avatar is losing its biggest costume: the Job Title.
The Trap: The Avatar says, “I used to be a Manager. Now I am nothing. I am useless.” This leads to depression or micromanaging the household because the Avatar craves control.
The Shift: The Player realizes: “I haven’t lost my identity; I have just put down a heavy tool.”
Think of it like an actor who has played a “General” for 30 years finally taking off the heavy armor.
You are not “Unemployed”; you are Unburdened. The Player is now free to explore things the Avatar didn’t have time for (reading, philosophy, gardening).
2. The Relationship: From “Co-Workers” to “Soulmates”
For the last 25-30 years, the couple has been like “Business Partners” running a project called “The Kids & The House.” They often looked outward at the problems. Now, the house is empty. They have to look at each other.
The Friction: Without the distraction of kids/work, you might notice your partner’s annoying habits more. “Why does he chew like that?” “Why does she worry so much?”
The Ashtavakra Move: Realize you are looking at a Survivor.
Look at your spouse and think: “This Player has been with me through every storm for 30 years. Her Avatar has aged, her skin has changed, but the ‘Camera’ inside her is the same one I fell in love with.”
This shifts the dynamic from Irritation to Reverence. You aren’t two old people stuck together; you are two time-travelers who made it to the other side.
3. The Aging Body: The “Vintage Car”
At 60, the Avatar starts to glitch. Knees hurt, energy dips, health scares happen.
The Trap: If you believe you are the body, every ache feels like a step toward death. You become obsessed with symptoms.
The Shift: Treat the body like a Vintage Car.
You (the Player) love the car. You polish it, you give it the best fuel (food), and you drive it gently.
But when the engine rattles, you don’t scream, “I am broken!” You say, “The car needs maintenance.”
This creates a distance between Pain (physical sensation) and Suffering (mental story). You can have a bad knee without having a miserable day.
4. The “Silent Tea” Ritual (A Practical Exercise)
Couples at this age often talk about logistics (health, money, grandkids). Try this instead:
Sit together for 10 minutes with tea. No phones, no TV.
The Rule: You don’t have to talk. You just have to “Be.”
This practice acknowledges that you are comfortable in the Space (the Player realm) together, without needing to fill it with “Avatar noise.” It is deeply intimate.
The “Grandparent” Advantage: The reason grandparents love grandkids so much is that grandparents are often in “Player Mode” (just watching and enjoying), while the parents are stuck in “Avatar Mode” (stressing and disciplining). At 60, you have the privilege of just enjoying the show.
Ashtavakra Philosophy When One Chair Gets Empty
This is the most difficult confrontation with reality a human being can face. When one chair is empty, the silence can be deafening.
In the Ashtavakra framework, the empty chair is not just a symbol of loss; it is a powerful, albeit painful, portal to the Ultimate Truth. Here is how this philosophy holds you when the person sitting across from you is gone.
1. The Avatar Grieves, The Player Watches
First, do not force yourself to be “spiritual” and deny the pain.
The Avatar (Your Body/Mind): Is in shock. It has lost its co-pilot. The habits of 30 or 40 years—making two cups of tea, turning to share a joke—are shattered. Let the Avatar cry. Let the Avatar feel heavy.
The Player (The Witness): Is the one aware of the silence.
The “empty chair” proves that Roles are temporary. The role of “Husband” or “Wife” was a script played by two Avatars. The script has ended.
But the Player remains. You are still the Witness of this new, quieter world.
2. The Partner Was Never the “Chair” (The Body)
The hardest illusion to break is that your loved one was their body.
When you look at the empty chair, the mind says: “They are gone.”
Ashtavakra says: “What you loved was not the pile of bones and skin that sat there. You loved the Light (the Player) that shone through them.”
The Shift: That Light did not die. It just stopped using that specific instrument. The connection you felt was Player-to-Player, and that connection is outside of time and space.
3. The “Fullness” of the Empty Chair
In ordinary life, we see an empty chair as a “Lack” or a “Void.” In the highest philosophy, that Empty Space is God (or Pure Consciousness).
The Practice: Instead of looking at the chair and thinking “Absence,” try to look at it and see “Space.”
Space is what holds everything. It is vast, silent, and peaceful.
Your partner has returned to that Space. When you sit with the empty chair, do not fill it with memories of the past. Just sit with the Silence.
In that deep silence, you are closer to them than when they were shouting from the other room. You are meeting them in the “Formless.”
4. You are Whole, Not “Half”
The cruelest feeling of widowhood is feeling like “half a person.”
The Trap: “I am a broken pair of scissors. I am useless alone.”
The Truth: Ashtavakra teaches “Purnata” (Wholeness). You were born alone as a complete Player. You will leave alone as a complete Player.
The marriage was a beautiful journey of two complete Players walking side-by-side.
Now, you must relearn your own Wholeness. You do not need the other chair filled to be complete. You are the Sky; you are vast enough to exist on your own.
A Thought for the “Survivor”: If you are the one left in the chair, it means your “Mission” as a Player is not done. The empty chair is a sign that life is asking you to look inward, deeper than you ever could when the house was noisy.
The Mantra for the Empty Chair: “The form is gone. The Love remains. The Space is not empty; it is full of Peace.”
Closing Thoughts
I didn’t understand any of this as a child. I misunderstood much of it as an adult. Even now, I fail at it more often than I succeed.
But this perspective helped me stop confusing what happens to me with what I am.
And that quiet difference changes everything.
