Prabhanjan Borkar, a sage with serene eyes and tattered ochre robes, sits cross-legged beneath the banyan’s sheltering arms. The world is hushed, broken only by the distant call of a koel and the soft lapping of the river. In the golden hush, a single question arises within him, echoing through the silence: "Who am I?" The words shimmer in his mind, not as a mere thought, but as a call to journey inward, deeper than the world of forms.
Prabhanjan opens his eyes to the spectacle of the waking world—the colors of saris fluttering, oxen trudging to fields, the fragrant smoke of incense curling into the air. He observes the world as if watching a play, recognizing the boundaries of Maya, the illusion that weaves itself into everyday sights. "I am but a shadow in the crowd, yet the crowd itself is an illusion," he whispers, his voice softer than the river’s current. The question lingers, more urgent now: "Who is it that sees through these eyes, hears within this silence?"
Prabhanjan[/@ch_1] in cool shade. The air is thick with the scent of earth and jasmine, and the world outside grows distant.]
Prabhanjan closes his eyes, turning inward. Thoughts drift like clouds—memories, desires, and fears—yet he notices a silent watcher behind them all. The intellect asserts, "I know all knowledge," while the mind insists, "I am all identity." Yet, in the quiet between thoughts, Prabhanjan senses a deeper presence, unmoving and pure, untouched by any thought or feeling. "Who is this witness, beyond intellect and mind?" he muses, his breath steady as the river.
Prabhanjan recalls his rituals—mantra chanting, meditation, and worship. He recognizes the subtle snares of ego, the sense of ‘I am the doer.’ "In action hides the shadow of Maya. The one who acts is not the true self, but the silent one who witnesses all unfolding," he reflects, watching his own hands in the glow of the setting sun. Dreams of creation and dissolution pass through his mind, and he wonders, "Am I the dreamer, or the one who awakens within the dream?" The silence grows deeper, and with each breath, the ‘doer’ dissolves.
Prabhanjan surrenders every identity: not the body, nor the mind, not the intellect nor the dreamer. "I am not the subtle, nor the gross; not the seen, nor the thought. I am not this world, nor any other," he whispers, voice merging with the dusk. Layer by layer, he lets go of all that can be named or known, until only formless awareness remains. Prabhanjan sits in luminous silence, a single point of stillness as night descends.
In the hush, Prabhanjan experiences the dissolution of the ‘I.’ There is no seeker, no means, no ‘I’ or ‘You’—only the boundless expanse of Brahman, the unchanging Self. Even emptiness feels born from this silent awareness; completeness sings in its wordless depth. In the end, there is only witnessing, serene and desireless, the non-dual essence playing in the universe. Prabhanjan smiles, eyes shining with tears and light. In perfect silence, he knows—he is.
