When a master speaks, one verse unveils an entire civilization

January 13, 2026

Dr Tanu Jain
Chief executive officer Bareilly cantonment board Ministry of defence

It was 8:30 p.m. on a cold December evening—the kind of winter night when silence settles early and the body longs for rest after a long day of duty. I had just returned from office, the weight of routine still lingering in my shoulders, when a gentle impulse rose within me. I picked up my phone and called my guru.

It had been long since we had spoken—not about schedules or health alone, but about that other nourishment, the kind that stirs the soul. I knew he had been unwell, affected by the harsh weather and prolonged cold, and my call was simple, almost ordinary: a quiet inquiry into his well-being. Yet, as so often happens in the presence of a true master, what began as concern soon unfolded into grace.His voice was soft, carrying the fatigue of the body, but beneath it flowed a current of clarity untouched by illness. And then, almost effortlessly, as though opening a hidden door, he recited a verse—ancient, resonant, and piercing in its truth. In that moment, it felt as if an ocean of knowledge began to pour into me.

He spoke the words of Bhartrhari:
bhoga na bhukta vayamev bhuktah
tapo na taptam vayamev taptah II
kalo na yato vayamev yatah
trushna na jirna vayamev jirnah II
He explained gently, without embellishment: It is not pleasures that have been enjoyed it is we who have been consumed.It is not austerity that has been practiced it is we who have been scorched.
Time has not passed it is we who have passed away.
Desire has not grown old it is we who have grown old.

He further explained that Bhartrhari is not condemning life; he is revealing it. He is saying that while we believe we are living fullyenjoying, striving, achievingoften life is quietly being spent through us. We glorify effort and endurance, yet many times it is exhaustion that accumulates, not elevation. We lament that time moves too fast, unaware that time remains untouched while we are the ones moving toward disappearance. Desires never seem to age, but our bodies, minds, and years surely do.It is the voice of someone who has lived completely, observed honestly, and then stepped back—not in bitterness, but in clarity.For a long while after the call ended, I remained still. I kept repeating the verse softly to myself, letting each line sink deeper. Something within me had shiftednot dramatically, but decisively. My love for literature, for meaning, for the depth hidden in words, was stirred anew. Reverence rose within menot only for the verse, but for the lineage of wisdom that carried it across centuries to reach me on an ordinary winter night.

Curiosity followed reverence. I began searching, reading, learning. Who was Bhartrhari? I discovered that Bhartrhari—often written as Brihathari in popular usage—was a 5th-century Indian philosopher-poet and grammarian, a towerinwg yet understated figure in our intellectual heritage. Tradition holds that he was once a king of Ujjain, surrounded by luxury and power, yet inwardly unsettled by the impermanence of love, success, and worldly pleasure. A profound inner rupture—often described as betrayal—became his turning point. He renounced his kingdom and chose the life of an ascetic.

But Bhartrhari was not only a renunciate; he was a thinker of extraordinary depth. His work Vakyapadiya explores language, consciousness, and reality itself, making him one of the earliest philosophers of linguistics in the Indian Knowledge System. Alongside this, he gifted the world three luminous collections of verses the Srinagara Sataka, the Niti satakam, and most piercing of all, the Vairagya satakam. Among them, the Vairagya satakam feels like a soul speaking to another soul across time especially to those standing at a quiet crossroads in life. As I read more, gratitude flooded me.

Had my guru not spoken that verse, I might have passed my entire life unaware that such a luminous philosopher ever existed. How rich our Indian knowledge tradition is—and how little we sometimes know of it. That realization did not make me sad; it made me thankful. Thankful that learning still finds its way to us, gently, when we are ready. That night, I went to sleep with a contented heart—grateful for the verse, for the master who shared it, and for the silent truth it revealed. Somewhere deep within, I felt a quiet assurance: the master chooses the disciple, not the other way around. And in that choice, there is grace.

I slept feeling blessed—aware that I had been introduced not merely to a text or a poet, but to a way of seeing life with clarity, humility, and inner freedom.