An Enchanting Lie

 I had gone through the most gruelling and bitter phases of my life in my early youth. My fair-weather friends ditched me; I began to live life on my own terms.


My future appeared completely uncertain and aimless. Everything looked dark—very, very dark. Even close relatives glaringly underestimated and mocked my strengths and capabilities, thus undermining my self-confidence. Utter lethargy and a profound sense of isolation weighed me down, and I became unresponsive to the things and events happening around me.



I simply ate the food my mother served me and lay on an old cot. Thoughts and feelings had parted company with me long before. It was a queer state of existence. I began to feel that human existence and the world were two great lies. When I became terribly embittered with the people around me and the world, my thoughts stopped moving outward and began turning inward. Having nothing to seek in the external world, my mind turned within, and I began to experience a deep, strange joy. Alongside this, I discovered that I had neither a beginning nor an end. The fear of death vanished automatically.



 If someone close to me died, I did not weep. I felt I was a spirit to my fingertips. I could not sleep at all. Why? The body sleeps; the spirit is ever awake. I came to believe that the great saints of India never slept. I would lie in bed with my eyes closed all night. It helped, because my mind would become totally devoid of thoughts and remain naturally concentrated and focused. I was bewildered. A wandering monk listened to me and said, “What takes sadhus and sanyasis years of hard work has come to you unasked!” Another sadhu told me that mine was markata vairagya, and that I would eventually return to worldly pleasures. I arrived at the conclusion that people spend their lives chasing external objects, developing an intense longing to cling to the world. They are like trapped birds, endlessly flapping their wings—calling it meaningful living.

I began to understand things that had long remained mysteries to me. It felt as though the secrets of the universe were revealing themselves. What I spoke sounded strange to both me and others. People could not understand me. I had been the dullest student in school, barely passing anything except drawing. Teachers and students made fun of me; elders beat me. I could not understand what was taught. Still, I was promoted from class to class—almost as a formality. Eventually, I dropped out. I had never imagined I would ever be educated. At home, women often discussed strange predictions about me. I disliked such talk and grew irritated with my mother. I even hurled abuse at the gods and refused to bow to them. My elder brother once scolded me harshly during a puja. My mother would say, “The Lord’s name is poison to this asura.”



Yet the future is mysteriously ordained—no power but the Almighty can alter it. My beliefs and destiny took an unexpected turn. Five years after leaving Utkal University, I remained disillusioned. I had quarrelled with my English professors; I found little originality in them. My favourite lecturer, Mr. Trilochan Mishra, had once advised me not to pursue my M.A. there. I ignored him—and paid the price. With no friends and no affection around me, I decided to leave home forever. One night, around 1 a.m., I quietly slipped out and walked to the Bhubaneswar railway station. There was an eerie stillness. I thought of my sleeping family, yet felt no sorrow. A Madras-bound train arrived, and I boarded it aimlessly. I had no ticket. When the ticket collector asked, I offered him money. He accepted part of it and returned the rest with a scribbled note. We began discussing God and religion. I spoke of memory, death, and desire.





He challenged me, and our conversation grew philosophical. He finally suggested I meet a saint—Narayan Swami. At first, I resisted, distrusting so-called holy men. But his conviction moved me. He took me home. His family treated me with warmth and respect, though I felt out of place among worldly people. One morning, I dreamt of an old sadhu sitting by a roaring river, beckoning me. I sketched him. The family was astonished—they believed it was Narayan Swami himself. We travelled to meet him. When I saw the Swami, I burst into uncontrollable tears. He embraced me—and then suddenly pushed me away, scolding me sharply. His words struck deep: “Why have you stopped meditating? You can meditate anywhere. Your mother is crying—write to her!” I obeyed like a child. I entered a phase of intense meditation and chanting. I felt complete, self-sufficient, beyond worldly desires. Yet, unexpectedly, I developed a deep attraction towards a young woman named Chitra. This disturbed me greatly. Torn between desire and discipline, I struggled. One day, I met her alone. And then something extraordinary happened. I realised—she was not separate from me. She was myself. Everything was myself. The sense of individuality dissolved. The world appeared as a grand illusion—an enchanting lie.


She grew angry at my words and left. But I remained absorbed in that revelation. Later, the Swami told me: “I am not your guru. Your guru is a greater soul.” He pointed to a photograph of Sai Baba. Confused, I listened as he instructed me to return home, marry, and live as a householder. “There is an interval now,” he said. “Your true Sadguru will guide you.” I never saw him again. Today, I live as a householder. My wife is devoted to Sai Baba. I spend my time in prayer. I have been blessed to bow at the feet of my living Master—revered by many as the living Sai. My views on life have completely transformed.



The attractions that once troubled me now dissolve instantly—like a balloon bursting in the air. What once seemed real now appears as illusion. An enchanting lie.