Chapter 1 – You Can Renounce the World, But Not Your Mind

There is no material life or spiritual life. There is just life, unfolding in all its beauty.

When I was a young spiritual seeker, the call of the Himalayas was irresistible, like a distant song that stirred something ancient within my heart. The concept of renunciation had taken root in my heart, a seed nourished by my yearning for a life of simplicity and spiritual fulfillment. Growing up as the youngest of five siblings, I was frail in health and often cocooned by my mother’s affection. She envisioned a different future for me—one filled with the warmth of family and the stability of marriage.

My father, a formidable figure, had built a vast empire of real estate, and it was assumed that I would naturally follow in his footsteps, stepping into the role of a businessman. But my mind would often dream of living in the serene expanse of the Himalayas. I imagined myself there, enveloped in silence, as I journeyed towards enlightenment.

Every time I looked into my father’s eyes, his dreams for my future and the legacy he had built. I respected him deeply, and the thought of disappointing him was a burden I carried in my heart. Yet, the pull of renunciation was unrelenting.

One trip to Badrinath, however, shattered my illusion of renunciation.

Badrinath is a serene Himalayan town, perched at an altitude of around 10,000 feet, surrounded by snow-capped peaks that kiss the sky. The Alaknanda River flows gracefully through Badrinath, lending the place an aura of timeless stillness, as if the entire town is in a perpetual state of meditation. People seeking wisdom come here, drawn by caves and valleys full of ancient spiritual energy and wisdom.

  I stayed in a modest ashram managed by a humble monk. I cherished my long, silent walks by the river, pondering the essence of life and consciousness. Nights in the ashram were special; we would gather in the open courtyard by the river, sharing our spiritual journeys under the vast Himalayan sky.

  One evening, as we sat in the courtyard under the starry Himalayan sky, one of the monks, a familiar figure

to the locals, appeared visibly disturbed. He began recounting a troubling story about two monks living deeper in the wilderness, away from the town.

  The first monk had been there for years, living in a small hut he had built for his solitary meditations. Recently, a second monk had arrived and set up his own hut on a plot of land right next to the first monk’s hut. This proximity didn’t sit well with the first monk, and what started as silent discontent soon erupted into daily verbal clashes. These weren’t just heated debates – they were filled with the choicest of slang comments and abuses. One day, the situation escalated into a physical fight, forcing onlookers to intervene and separate the two.

    I couldn’t sleep that night, unable to reconcile the image of these monks—men who had renounced money, fame, family, friends, and comfort—fighting over a piece of land. A piece of land that, ironically, neither of them owned, as it was government property.

   This incident shattered my naive image of renunciates as beings above worldly conflicts, functioning from a higher state of consciousness. These monks had left the material world behind, yet their old conditioning, desires, and fears clung to them like shadows. They had given up everything but couldn’t let go of their mind.

Why would monks, who had supposedly renounced everything, fight over something so trivial?

  It made me realize that letting go of material possessions doesn’t automatically lead to inner peace. The ego doesn’t vanish with the abandonment of wealth or comfort. Instead, it finds new ways to assert itself, clinging to whatever it can—be it land, status, or even the illusion of solitude.

  For the next few days, I was haunted by the incident. Will I end up like these monks, bitter and angry and ready to fight instead of sharing? No matter where I go, I carry this “I” with me, this individuality with all its goodness and flaws.

Can I renounce my mind? 

It was years later, after going through the spiritual grind, that I understood that no matter where you go, you always take your mind with you. You can renounce everything, but you can’t renounce your mind.

  This was a pivotal moment in my spiritual journey. It taught me that true renunciation isn’t about physical separation from the world but about an inner transformation. It’s about addressing the ego, the very root of our desires and fears. The Himalayas, with all their serene beauty, can’t wash away the mind. That task falls to us, to confront and transcend our inner darkness.

The path to true peace isn’t found in distant mountains or secluded huts. It lies within, in the depths of our own consciousness.

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When people first come to me, they’re often at their wits’ end. They’re drowning in stress, overwhelmed by the chaos of their lives. They want peace. They want calm. They want a way out. What they don’t realize is that the only way out is through.

  Year after year, I’ve had a lot of people come to me for advice with the same misguided idea about renunciation. They imagine going to a serene mountaintop where they can leave all their problems behind. They think spirituality is an escape route, a way to run away from the messiness and the pain of life.

The mind has a remarkable ability to create an idealized future, a life of spiritual tranquility as a means of escaping the present.

  This creates a sense of disconnection from our current reality, making it difficult to fully engage with the present. Spirituality isn’t about escaping life. It’s about facing it head-on, diving deep into the muck, and coming out on the other side with a clearer understanding of who you are and what life is.

How Mike Stopped Running and Started Living

Mike was a man on the brink. He had a high-powered job that consumed him, a family he barely saw, and a deep emptiness that never seemed to go away. He came to me seeking my approval for a quick fix.  For him, the quick fix was to leave his family and work behind, turn away from his responsibility and join an Ashram. An Ashram is a spiritual retreat or monastery and has roots in ancient Indian spiritual tradition. It is a community where people live and practice meditation, yoga, and other spiritual activities under the guidance of a guru. 

Ashrams are usually located in peaceful, natural settings and focus on simple, disciplined living.

Mike was dressed in his expensive suit, sitting in my humble, serene space. The contrast was stark. I asked him to describe the emptiness he felt. He hesitated, then spoke slowly, like he was afraid of his own words. “It’s like a void inside me. No matter what I achieve, it’s never enough. I keep thinking the next promotion, the next big deal, will fill it. But it never does.”

I nodded. “And what do you do when you feel this void?”

“I work harder. I push myself more. I try to distract myself with success.”

“Exactly,” I said. “You’re running away. And the more you run, the further you get from understanding what’s really going on inside you. Do you think running away to an Ashram will solve this?”

Mike looked at me, bewildered. “So, what should I do? Just be in the material world and feel miserable?”

“Running away from your responsibilities and duties is not the right path. You need to sit with your discomfort. Sit quietly with your painful feelings of emptiness. Don’t push them away or try to fix them. Observe these emotions without judgment. Remember, the goal isn’t to eliminate the feelings, but to give it space to arise. You need to stop escaping the discomfort.”

“Isn’t the whole point of spirituality to find peace? How can I find peace amidst all this chaos” he asked, his voice tinged with desperation. I could see he was holding on to that last thread of hope, wanting so badly for me to confirm his belief in an easy way out.

“Yes,” I replied, “But real peace doesn’t come from avoiding your problems. It comes from facing them and moving through them. Peace is forged in the depths of discomfort”

I could see he was struggling to grasp this. So I shared a story from my own life.

Years ago, I went to live with a wise sage In Haridwar. During those times I felt intense restlessness and mental turmoil. I tried to meditate it away, chant it away, but nothing worked. One day, my teacher told me something that changed everything. He said, “Rajiv, stop trying to escape your suffering. Sit with it. Listen to it. It has something to teach you.”

It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I sat in silence, facing my fears and doubts head-on. At first, it was unbearable. But gradually, I began to see patterns, understand the roots of my discomfort. And then, after days of sitting silently with my mental turmoil, something incredible happened. The restlessness slowly transformed. It became a space of possibility, a fertile ground for growth.

I told Mike this, watching as his expression shifted from skepticism to curiosity. “So, you’re saying my emptiness has something to teach me?”

“Yes,” I said. “But you have to be willing to listen.”

After a long discussion, Mike said that he was willing to give it a try. The next few weeks were tough for Mike. He came back to me, time and again, frustrated and exhausted. “It’s not working,” he’d say.

“Good,” I’d reply. “That means you’re getting somewhere. Keep going.”

And he did. Slowly, he began to uncover layers of himself he had buried under years of ambition and distraction. He faced his fears of failure and his insecurities about not being good enough.

One day, he walked into my space with a different energy. He looked lighter, more at peace. “I had a breakthrough,” he said, smiling. “I realized that the void I’ve been trying to fill isn’t something outside of me. It’s inside. And it’s not a void at all. It’s a part of me that I need to nurture, not escape from.”

I nodded. Mike had finally stopped running and started living.

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This world, with all its chaos, demands, and distractions, seems like the last place to find spirituality. How can you find stillness if the mind is riddled by a thousand problems? But here’s the twist: it’s the perfect place. The noise, the rush, the grind – they’re not just obstacles; they’re opportunities. Opportunities to be calm in the storm, to find silence in the noise, to be present when everything else is moving fast.

It’s seeing the world in a new light. It’s knowing you’re not only this identity, the little “me” but you are the universe itself, reflected like the sun is reflected in a tiny dew drop. Your everyday commute to the office is your daily stroll in the majestic Himalayas.

Your home is your cave.

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