Dashak 15 · Samāsa 7

Ramdas identifies mula-maya (root-māyā) as the single origin of all vikaras (modifications, changes) — every variation ultimately traces to this one root. Within the acañcala (unmoving, changeless) there stirs a cañcala (moving, changing) principle, but only in sukshma-rupa (subtle form) — invisible yet already present.

When you feel pulled toward some restless urge, pause and ask what steadier, quieter ground it is actually arising from, rather than treating the urge itself as the starting point.

This root-māyā is not blank matter but is itself jnana (knowing-ness) — it carries the mula sankalpa (root intention or will) from which everything unfolds, and it is by this same logic that one comes to recognize the shad-guna-ishvara (the Lord possessing the six divine attributes).

Notice that even your most basic impulses carry a trace of awareness within them; trace a strong urge back toward its source before simply acting on it.

Various traditions name this root differently — Prakriti-Purusha (nature and spirit), Shiva-Shakti, Ardhanari-Nateshvara (the half-female Lord of dance) — but Ramdas insists these are all names for one jagajjyoti (light of the world), the single root behind every label.

When different teachings or people describe the same deep truth in different words, look past the vocabulary to see whether they are pointing at one and the same reality.

The very motion of sankalpa (will, intention) is what characterizes vayu (wind or breath, the principle of movement); from this movement come vayu, the tri-guna (three qualities: sattva, rajas, tamas), and the pancha-bhuta (five elements) — the whole visible cosmos begins as motion within intention.

Before reacting, notice the first stir of intention behind an action — that quiet motion, not the outward deed, is where change actually begins.

Ramdas opens an extended vela (vine or creeper) image: look at any vine and its roots run deep, while the leaves, flowers, and fruits visible above all come purely from that hidden root — setting up the analogy for how all diversity comes from mula-māyā, explored through 15.7.016.

When admiring some visible accomplishment in your life, take a moment to trace it back to the quiet, unseen root — habit, intention, or discipline — that actually produced it.

Beyond the vine's visible parts lie countless colors, forms, vikaras (modifications), ripples, and inner flavors — all already contained within the root itself before they ever show themselves outwardly.

Recognize that the variety you see in your moods and circumstances is not random but was already latent within you; look inward rather than blaming only outward events.

Split the root open to examine it directly, and nothing at all seems to be there — yet as growth proceeds further and further, form begins to appear. This paradox, an empty root that nonetheless produces endless visible growth, is the crux of the whole samāsa, continued at 15.7.009 and again at 15.7.015-016.

Do not be discouraged when you search inward for the cause of your thoughts and find nothing solid; accept that growth can proceed from what looks, on direct inspection, like emptiness.

The vine, having emerged even on a bare cliff, pushes downward with force and then spreads out widely across the earth — the image of expansive, unstoppable growth from an obscure beginning.

Do not wait for ideal conditions to begin something worthwhile; like the vine on the cliff, start from wherever you are and let steady effort spread outward.

Ramdas draws the direct comparison: just as the vine's varied growth comes from its root, so too pancha-bhuta (five elements) and tri-guna (three qualities) exist already at the root, mula-māyā — and this should be known not by argument but by pratyaya (direct, lived experience).

Do not settle for secondhand explanations of your own nature; verify spiritual claims against your own direct experience before accepting them.

The vine grows on unbroken, displaying itself in countless vikaras (variations), until the vikāra of vikāras — variation upon variation — becomes something utterly inconceivable in its proliferation.

When a single small habit or thought spirals into an overwhelming tangle of consequences, step back and recognize the compounding pattern rather than getting lost trying to track every branch.

Branches burst forth, clusters multiply, and endless growing tips push out across all of srishti (creation) — the vine's proliferation now stands for the ceaseless multiplying of created forms.

When your responsibilities or projects keep multiplying, accept that this branching-out is natural to any living process rather than treating it as something gone wrong.

Fruits fall from the vine, and others immediately take their place — this coming and going happens constantly, without pause, mirroring the endless arising and passing of created things.

When you lose something you valued, notice how quickly life offers something new in its place, and let that observation soften your grief rather than deny it.

Some vines dry up entirely, only to sprout again in that very spot — countless instances of coming and going are folded into this one image of death and renewal.

When a phase of your life or a relationship seems to have ended, stay open to the possibility that new growth can emerge from that same ground later.

Leaves fall and sprout, flowers and fruits do the same, and in the midst of all this the jivas (individual souls) exist on earth in a manner Ramdas calls asambhavya — inconceivable, beyond ordinary comprehension.

When you feel like just one small, temporary leaf among countless others, remember that this very ordinariness is itself part of a pattern too vast to fully grasp; let that humble rather than dishearten you.

Eventually the whole vine withers away, yet it arises again from the very same root — Ramdas says this entire process should be known pratyaksha (directly, through one's own perception), not merely accepted on hearsay. The literal text carries forward here the seed-image (root as seed, end as seed, water-form seed in between) that develops in 15.7.016, showing how this same svabhava (inherent nature) spreads spontaneously through the whole cycle.

Watch a full cycle of loss and renewal in your own life — a habit dropped and later reformed, a relationship ended and a new one grown — and let that direct observation, not someone else's claim, convince you that endings are not final.

What is present within the root speaks of a bija-srishti (seed-creation) — a portion of the root goes forth and, wherever it lands, arrives there without suffering (kashti na hotam), moving effortlessly rather than being forced.

When you pass some part of yourself onward — a skill taught, a value shared — trust that it can take root elsewhere without your having to force or strain the transfer.

The ordinary pattern is repetition — going, coming, going again, over and over — but for the atma-jnani (knower of the Self) this repetitive cycle simply does not apply; he stands outside its pull, a claim developed further in 15.7.018-021.

Notice which of your daily routines merely repeat without purpose, and use steady self-awareness to step outside at least one such loop rather than running it unconsciously again.

Even if someone insists it does not happen to them, Ramdas presses that something must still be known and understood — some inner reality exists whether or not it is consciously grasped by everyone.

Do not dismiss a pattern in your own behavior just because you cannot yet explain it; acknowledge that something real is operating even before you fully understand it.

People carry out their affairs by means of this very hidden knowing, yet remain unaware that they do so — Ramdas asks, almost with compassion, what else such wretches (bapude) can do when the underlying mechanism stays invisible to them.

Extend patience to people who act well without being able to explain why; unconscious competence is still real competence, even without articulate awareness.

Vishaya-bhoga (enjoyment of sense-objects) happens only by means of that same hidden principle; without it nothing at all could occur. Ramdas then counsels leaving behind the sthula (gross, physical) to settle into the sukshma (subtle) — this is how things ought to be.

When chasing a sensory pleasure leaves you unsatisfied, deliberately shift your attention from the surface experience to its subtler undercurrent rather than repeating the same gross pursuit.

Ramdas states that one's own inner nature (antara) is identical in kind to the jagad-antara (the inner nature of the world) — it is only the vikaras (modifications) produced by bodily division that appear separate from one another.

When you feel isolated from other people, remember that the sense of separateness comes from bodily difference alone, not from any real division at the level of inner being; let that soften harsh judgments of others.

Ramdas gives the body-parts analogy that will run through 15.7.023-027: one finger cannot feel what another finger feels, and one does not know what another knows — the same holds, by extension, for hands, feet, and every other limb.

Accept that you cannot fully feel what another person is going through internally, the way one hand cannot feel another's sensation; let this humility guide how you offer support rather than assuming you already know their experience.

If even one limb cannot know another limb of the very same body, Ramdas asks, how much less can it know anything truly external? This is offered as the reason why another person's inner life (parantara) remains fundamentally unknowable from outside.

Before assuming you understand someone else's motives, remind yourself that direct access to another's interior is naturally closed to you, and ask rather than assume.

All plants are watered by the same single source, yet countless differences appear among their growing tips; only the ones that get plucked wither, while the rest stay fresh — an image of one shared root-cause producing visibly unequal outcomes.

When you and others draw on the same resources or teaching yet end up in very different places, look for what specific disturbance, not the shared source, explains the difference.

By this same logic, apparent bheda (difference) arises between beings — one does not know another — yet Ramdas insists that at the level of true knowing-ness, for the Atman (Self) itself, there is no bheda at all.

When conflict makes you feel utterly separate from someone, remember that the difference is at the level of surface knowledge, not of underlying being, and let that temper how far you let the conflict divide you.

Difference appears to exist even within Atma-tva (Selfhood) because of deha-prakriti (bodily nature), yet Ramdas affirms that, for the most part, this is still known — the underlying unity has not actually been lost, only obscured by embodiment.

When your outward circumstances make you feel unlike someone you actually share deep common ground with, hold onto the underlying knowledge of that connection even while respecting the visible differences.

People generally know things through seeing and hearing, but the shahane (wise) go further and examine another's inner nature directly, while the dhurta (shrewd, cunning) understand everything, even what is hidden, through their own cleverness — three tiers of perceptiveness.

Do not stop at what someone shows you outwardly; practice the wiser habit of examining a person's underlying intentions before you decide how much to rely on them.

Whoever nourishes and sustains many people must, by necessity, examine the inner nature of each of them — cleverness lets such a person come to understand everything about others, even what stays hidden from plain view.

If you are responsible for guiding or supporting several people, take the time to understand each one's individual temperament rather than treating them all the same way.

The order of operations Ramdas prescribes: first observe someone's manogata (inner intention, what is on their mind), and only afterward extend trust — and he adds that every living creature, without exception, actually operates by this same rule.

Before placing your trust in someone new, take time to observe their intentions in action first, and only then extend confidence; do not reverse the order.

Behind every act of smarana (remembering) lurks vismarana (forgetting); Ramdas calls direct, cash-in-hand pratiti (experiential conviction) the true standard (pramana), noting that one's own inner store of memory continually wears itself down through ordinary use.

Do not rely on secondhand memory or hearsay as your standard of truth; return instead to a fresh, present experience you can verify right now.

A striking observation: the self does not even remember itself — what was said is soon forgotten, and countless thoughts (kalpana) arise on their own, with no clear origin one can point to.

When a stray thought surfaces with no obvious cause, resist the urge to trace it back to a tidy explanation, and simply notice it arising and passing without owning it as fully yours.

This is the cañcala cakra (wheel of restless change) — some of its turning is straight, some crooked — and it spins the same way whether one is a ranka (pauper) or Śakra (Indra, king of gods): both are equally subject to smarana-asmarana (remembering and forgetting).

Do not assume that wealth or status exempts anyone from the ordinary fluctuations of memory and forgetting, attention and distraction; treat that vulnerability as universal, including your own.

Ramdas gives the key identification of the whole samāsa: smarana (remembering) is to be understood as Deva (the divine), and vismarana (forgetting) as danava (the demonic); ordinary human beings (manava) are governed by this very tension between the two, developed further at 15.7.034-035.

When you catch yourself in wakeful remembrance versus careless forgetting, treat that inner shift itself as a small, real choice between the higher and the lower pull in you.

Following from the divine-demonic identification, Ramdas says one should recognize daivi and danavi sampatti (divine and demonic endowment) as two distinct currents, and urges bringing pracita (direct experience) to mind together with vivek (discernment).

When faced with a choice, actively summon both your discernment and your own direct sense of what is true, rather than drifting passively toward whichever impulse is louder.

Ramdas gives three parallel images for self-referential knowing: vivek (discernment) must be known by vivek itself, the Atman (Self) recognized by the Atman, just as the eye can only see itself reflected in a mirror — some things cannot be known except through their own instrument.

When trying to understand your own character, do not rely solely on others' opinions of you; use honest self-reflection as the mirror that lets you see yourself directly.

Continuing the same logic: sthula (the gross) must be examined by means of the gross, sukshma (the subtle) understood by means of the subtle, and an inner mark or sign impressed by its own like mark, deep within.

Match your method to your subject: use plain observation for practical matters and quiet inward reflection for subtle inner states, rather than applying the wrong tool to each.

The refrain continues: one vichar (consideration, reflection) is known by another vichar, the interior (antara) known by interior, and — crucially — another's interior (parantara) can be known only by becoming one with one's own interior first.

If you want to truly understand another person's inner state, first deepen your own self-understanding; genuine empathy grows out of inward work, not merely outward observation.

Ramdas names vismarana occurring within smarana itself — forgetting nested inside remembering — as the very mark (lakshana) of bheda (division, difference); nothing confined to just one location or side, he adds, is ever truly paripurna (complete).

When you notice yourself half-remembering and half-forgetting something important, recognize that as the ordinary condition of a partial, unintegrated mind rather than a personal failing.

A series of paired images captures the same incompleteness: one learns ahead but forgets what is behind, bright in front but dark behind, remembering forward while forgetting backward — all things, taken from only one angle, are partial like this.

When you feel proud of recent progress, deliberately look back at what you have already let slip, so your sense of growth stays honest rather than one-sided.

The samāsa's closing identification: turya (the fourth, transcendent state beyond waking, dream, and deep sleep) is to be understood as smarana (remembering), while sushupti (deep dreamless sleep) is to be understood as vismarana (forgetting) — both states operate within the very same body, continued at 15.7.041.

Treat moments of clear, wakeful presence as a taste of remembering your deeper nature, and treat blank, unaware stretches of the day as a form of forgetting it; notice which one you are cultivating.

Restating and sealing the identification of 15.7.040: turya is smarana, sushupti is vismarana — both, Ramdas says, operate together within the one same body, right now, closing the samāsa's argument that the entire cañcala-cakra traced from mula-māyā through the vine to individual selves ultimately reduces to this single interplay of remembering and forgetting.

End each day by noticing which of the two currents, attentive remembrance or careless forgetting, dominated your hours, and set an intention to lean toward remembrance tomorrow.