Here is the summary of my talk at the Indica Advaita Academy on November 30, summarized by Google Gemini
Tesla As a Metaphor for Dhyāna Yoga
Modern Insights on Meditation
In the lecture “Tesla As A Metaphor For Dhyāna Yoga | Modern Insights On Meditation,” technologist and writer Sundar Rajan addresses an enduring puzzle: why does meditation feel effortless for some, yet impossibly difficult for others — even when they are intelligent, disciplined, and sincere?
Delivered for Advaita Academy, the talk proposes an arresting answer. Deep meditation (Dhyāna Yoga) does not function like a manual skill that improves only with effort. Instead, it behaves more like an autonomous system — once correctly initiated, it runs largely on its own. To explain this, Rajan turns to an unlikely but surprisingly precise metaphor: the Tesla car.
Executive Summary
Rajan’s central claim is bold yet simple:
The spiritual journey of Dhyāna Yoga is self-driving.
Using features from early Tesla vehicles, he maps two classical Vedantic ideas into modern language:
Lifetime Charging → Guru’s Grace
Full Self-Driving (FSD) → Spiritual Autonomy
He further distinguishes between secular meditation (stress reduction, wellness) and spiritual meditation (Self-realization), and presents an unusual experiment in which ChatGPT is used to validate criteria for genuine meditative progress using Bhagavad Gita Chapter 6 as a reference.
1. The Tesla Metaphor
Lifetime Charging = Guru’s Grace
Early Tesla models famously included lifetime free charging — a benefit that, once granted, was never revoked.
Rajan equates this with Dīkṣā or Guru’s Grace. Once a seeker receives initiation or inner orientation from a realized teacher, that spiritual charge remains available permanently.
He illustrates this with a deeply personal anecdote: meeting his mentor — a Siddha Purusha and engineer — in the late 1970s. Over the next 45 years, Rajan admits to long gaps, inconsistencies, and even misuse of practice. Yet the inner access point never disappeared.
Key insight: Grace is not transactional. Once imparted, it does not expire.
Full Self-Driving (FSD) = Spiritual Autonomy
Tesla’s Full Self-Driving system uses cameras, sensors, and internal navigation to reach a destination with minimal driver input.
Rajan argues that Dhyāna Yoga works the same way.
Unlike Śravaṇa and Manana (systematic study and reflection), meditation is a solitary path. Once the destination — Self-realization — is implanted, an internal guidance system takes over.
He cites Bhagavad Gita, Chapter 6, where Krishna assures Arjuna that even a yogi who falls short continues the journey in future lives.
Key insight: Meditation is not fragile. Once begun correctly, it resumes automatically — across breaks, failures, and even lifetimes.
2. “Meditation” vs. “meditation”
One of the talk’s most provocative lines is:
“Yoga is not yoga. Meditation is not meditation.”
Rajan draws a clear boundary:
Secular meditation (lowercase m)
Mindfulness apps
Stress reduction
Productivity or wellness practices
These are useful and legitimate — but limited to psychological well-being.
Spiritual Meditation (uppercase M)
The Dhyāna of the Upaniṣads and Gita
Aimed explicitly at Self-realization
Confusing the two, he argues, leads to frustration — people expect transcendence from tools designed only for calmness.
3. Measuring the Unmeasurable
If meditation is autonomous, how do we know it is working?
Rajan rejects external metrics like posture, duration, or silence. Instead, he proposes three internal markers of authentic Dhyāna Yoga:
Absorption — How fully attention is drawn inward
Peace (Śānti) — A causeless, inner tranquility
Bliss (Ānanda) — A subtle but unmistakable joy
His most controversial assertion is also the clearest:
Without Bliss, it is not Dhyāna Yoga.
4. Validating Wisdom with AI
In an experiment that startled many in the audience, Rajan tested his framework using ChatGPT.
The Experiment
He asked the AI to:
Compare meditation systems (Mindfulness, TM, Art of Living, Patañjali Yoga)
Score them against Absorption, Peace, and Bliss
Use Bhagavad Gita Chapter 6 as the evaluative lens
The Result
The AI produced a bubble chart ranking practices hierarchically — placing Samādhi at the highest level and app-based meditation at the lowest.
Crucially, it did this without being prompted to privilege traditional spiritual endpoints.
Conclusion: Large Language Models, trained on vast corpora of spiritual texts, can act as coherent mirrors of inherited wisdom — not realized beings, but powerful tools for validating philosophical hypotheses.
Conclusion: Self-Driving to the Self
Rajan’s lecture succeeds because it reframes spirituality without diluting it.
The takeaway is both comforting and demanding:
Comforting, because progress is not lost through inconsistency.
Demanding, because genuine Dhyāna requires the right destination, not just effort.
Once grace is received and the inner destination is set, the system moves on its own — quietly, persistently, across time.
The journey to the Self is not a manual climb. It is full self-driving — powered by grace.
For a generation fluent in AI, autonomy, and intelligent systems, this metaphor may be one of the clearest modern bridges yet between ancient Vedanta and contemporary life.
Yuval Noah Harari and Abhyāsa: When 60 Minutes Meets the Yoga Sūtras
When Yuval Noah Harari Accidentally Taught Ancient Yoga Philosophy on 60 Minutes
Is Yuval Noah Harari unknowingly demonstrating the Bewildered Mind? How his one-minute interview on meditation maps perfectly to ancient Sanskrit philosophy from 2,000 years ago.
City Slickers is one of my favorite movies. There's a scene early in the film—easily my favorite scene—that haunts me. Billy Crystal's character, Mitch Robbins, stands before his son's class for Career Day. He's a burnt-out radio ad salesman, and the kids are immediately confused.
Wait. Wrong movie reference. Let me start again.
60 Minutes is one of America's most-watched news programs. There's a segment that aired recently—easily one of the most revealing—that haunts me. Yuval Noah Harari's interview with Anderson Cooper lasts just about sixty seconds. He's discussing his meditation practice, and viewers are immediately intrigued.
The Setup
Picture this: It's a Sunday evening. Millions of Americans are watching60 Minutes. Anderson Cooper sits across from Yuval Noah Harari—the Israeli historian who wroteSapiensandHomo Deus, a man whose books have sold millions and influenced world leaders.
And then, for about sixty seconds, Harari does something unexpected.
He delivers a flawless, modern-day masterclass on Patañjali's Yoga Sūtras—a text written roughly 2,000 years ago.
I doubt he planned it. But as someone who studies Vedanta with a background in technology, I watched those sixty seconds and thought: This is it. This is the ancient framework, playing out in real time, on primetime American television.
Let me show you what I mean.
The Three Principles: Ancient Meets Modern
1. The Art of Showing Up (Abhyāsa)
Harari doesn't ease into his meditation practice. He doesn't do "5 minutes when I can fit it in." Listen to what he tells Cooper:
"I start my day when I wake up in the morning so the first thing I do I meditate for an hour and then... sometime in the afternoon I'll meditate another another hour."
Two hours. Every single day.
In our age of "meditation apps" promising transformation in five minutes, this feels almost extreme. But to anyone who's studied the Yoga Sūtras, it's instantly recognizable. This is Abhyāsa—the foundational principle of the entire Yogic system.
Patañjali is very specific about what makes practice actually work:
Yoga Sūtra 1.13:tatra sthitau yatno 'bhyāsaḥ "Practice is the effort required to establish a stable and tranquil state."
Yoga Sūtra 1.14:sa tu dīrghakāla nairantarya satkārasevito dṛḍhabhūmiḥ "Practice becomes firmly grounded when attended to for a long time, without break, and with deep devotion."
Three requirements: long time (dīrghakāla), without break (nairantarya), and with devotion (satkāra).
Harari's two-hour daily commitment checks all three boxes. This isn't about inspiration or motivation. It's about the simple, profound art of showing up. Day after day. Building the "muscle" of attention through sustained, devoted effort.
The ancient text knew: transformation doesn't come from insight. It comes from repetition.
2. Reality vs. The Story Factory (Vṛttis)
Here's where it gets interesting. Cooper asks Harari why he meditates. And Harari's answer made me sit up straight:
"The mind constantly produces these stories... and they constantly come between me and reality. And meditation is about learning how to let go of these stories and just see what is actually happening."
These "stories" that Harari describes—this is exactly what Patañjali calls Vṛttis.
In tech terms (which is how my brain works), Vṛttis are like buggy background processes consuming all your RAM. Your mind is constantly running narratives, interpretations, judgments, predictions—an entire operating system of stories—that prevents you from seeing what's actually in front of you.
It's the Instagram of the Mind. Carefully curated. Heavily filtered. And we mistake it for reality itself.
Patañjali's entire definition of Yoga is about these very stories:
Yoga Sūtra 1.2:yogaś-citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ "Yoga is the cessation of the movements (fluctuations) of the mind."
Yoga Sūtra 1.3:tadā draṣṭuḥ svarūpe-'vasthānam "At that time (of stillness), the Seer is established in its own true nature."
Yoga Sūtra 1.4:vṛtti sārūpyam-itaratra "At other times, the Seer identifies with the movements."
Read that last one again. "At other times, the Seer identifies with the movements."
In other words: most of the time, we don't see reality. We see our stories about reality. And we think that's the same thing.
Harari's goal—"to see what is actually happening"—is a perfect modern articulation of what Patañjali meant by svarūpa: resting in your true nature, seeing clearly, without the filter of the mind's narratives.
3. The Genius Meets the Breath (Cañcalam)
But here's my favorite part of the interview. The moment of humility.
Harari—this intellectual giant, this Oxford PhD, this man who analyzes the entire sweep of human history—admits something vulnerable:
"I was doing my PhD at Oxford, I thought I really was a very intelligent person... and I saw I don't even have this basic ability to observe... my breath without my mind wandering away to some fantasies... So what chance do I have to really get to know the deep sources of my psychological structures?"
Intelligence doesn't help. Credentials don't help. Even a brilliant mind can't control itself.
This restless, wandering, impossible-to-pin-down quality of the mind? The Yogis had a name for it: Cañcalam.
And they knew it wasn't a bug. It's a feature of the human operating system.
In the Bhagavad Gītā, the warrior Arjuna has the exact same complaint to Krishna:
Bhagavad Gītā 6.34:cañcalam hi manaḥ kṛṣṇa pramāthi balavad dṛḍham tasyāhaṁ nigrahaṁ manye vāyor iva suduṣkaram "For the mind is restless, turbulent, obstinate and very strong, O Krishna, and to subdue it, it seems to me, is more difficult than controlling the wind."
More difficult than controlling the wind.
When I first read this, I thought: "Well, that's comforting." Even legendary warriors in ancient epics couldn't keep their minds from wandering.
Harari's confession—broadcast to millions—is deeply reassuring. The struggle for focus isn't a personal failing. It's not because you're "bad at meditation" or lack discipline. It's the fundamental challenge of being human.
And notice what Harari says at the end: his question about understanding his own "psychological structures." This points directly to the ultimate aim of Yoga—not relaxation, not stress relief, but self-realization. Deep, direct knowledge of the Self (Ātman).
The Map: Side by Side
When you lay it out, the parallels are stunning:
Harari's Experience
Ancient Yogic Concept
Core Principle
Meditating two hours daily, without fail
Abhyāsa (Practice)
Consistent, devoted effort is the foundation
The mind creating "stories" that obscure reality
Vṛttis (Mental Fluctuations)
The goal is to quiet the mind's narratives to perceive reality directly
The mind "wandering away" from the breath
Cañcalam (Restlessness)
The untrained mind is inherently turbulent and difficult to control
"See what is actually happening"
Svarūpa (True Nature)
When fluctuations cease, the Seer rests in its essential form
Why This Matters Now
Here's what struck me most about this interview: the problems haven't changed.
We have smartphones, AI, social media, infinite information at our fingertips. Our technology evolves exponentially. But the human mind? Same operating system. Same bugs.
We still get lost in stories about reality instead of seeing reality itself.
We still struggle to focus on our own breath for sixty seconds.
We still need sustained, devoted practice to make any real progress.
Yuval Noah Harari—a public intellectual, a modern thinker—inadvertently demonstrated that Patañjali's Yoga Sūtras aren't historical relics. They're an essential user manual for the most complex piece of technology we'll ever own: our own minds.
The sūtras are an ancient operating system for modern hardware.
The Question
So here's what I'm left with after watching this interview:
If one of the world's most brilliant historians needs two hours a day to work with his mind's restlessness and story-making...
If ancient sages from 2,000 years ago mapped the exact same challenges we face today...
If the solution they offered—consistent practice, quieting the narratives, seeing what's actually real—still works...
What would change if you actually tried it?
Not the five-minute app version. Not the "wellness" version. But the real thing. The dīrghakāla nairantarya satkāra version—the long-term, unbroken, devoted practice that Patañjali prescribed.
The technology around you will keep changing. But the operating system of your mind won't.
Have you tried debugging it today?
This article is part of my ongoing exploration of how ancient wisdom maps onto modern experience. If this resonated with you, check out my oher articles or my web site: QuantumView Website
What's your experience with meditation or contemplative practice? I'd love to hear in the comments below.
Mitch Robbins and Muhyamānah: When Career Day Meets the Mundaka Upanishad
Is Billy Crystal unknowingly playing the Bewildered Bird? How the Career Day scene in City Slickers maps perfectly to ancient Sanskrit
City Slickers is one of my favorite movies. There's a scene early in the film—easily my favorite scene—that haunts me. Billy Crystal's character, Mitch Robbins, stands before his son's class for Career Day. He's a burnt-out radio ad salesman, and the kids are immediately confused.
"Are you a disc jockey?" one kid asks.
"No," Mitch sighs, "I'm not a disc jockey. I sell time… for commercials."
Another kid's hand shoots up: "So you decide which commercials to use and when?"
Mitch's face tightens. "Well… no, it's not right. It used to be right. Seems now that I even have to check with the station manager if I want to wipe my nose. The minute he took away my authority, I should have quit."
This confession of powerlessness is the real start of the speech. It's the sound of a man who has lost himself before he even gets to the part we all remember—a devastating chronicle that gets a knowing laugh from every adult in the audience:
Your teens-20s? "You think you can do anything and you do. Your 20s are a blur."
Your 30s? "You raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself: what happened to my 20s?"
Your 40s? "You grow a little pot belly, you grow another chin, the music starts to get too loud..."
Your 50s? "You'll have a minor surgery—you'll call it a procedure, but it's a surgery."
Your 60s? "You'll have a major surgery. The music is still loud but it doesn't matter because you can't hear it anyway."
Your 70s? "You and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale. Start eating dinner at 2:00 in the afternoon. You have lunch around 10:00. Breakfast the night before. Spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate soft yogurt and muttering: 'how come the kids don't call? How come the kids don't call?'"
Your 80s? "You'll have a major stroke. You end up babbling with some Jamaican nurse your wife can't stand but who you call Mama."
"Any questions?"
We laugh because it feels familiar. It's darkly comic, painfully accurate. But what if this isn't just comedy? What if Billy Crystal just performed a 3,000-year-old diagnosis?
The Two Birds: Samāne Vṛkṣe
The Mundaka Upanishad (3.1.1-2) offers a profound metaphor called Samāne Vṛkṣe—"The Two Birds on the Same Tree."
On the same tree (your life, your body) sit two birds:
The first bird (the jīva, the individual soul) frantically eats the fruits—some sweet, some bitter. It is completely absorbed in this tasting, this experiencing, this doing.
The second bird (the Īśa, the witnessing Self) sits higher, silent and radiant. It doesn't eat. It simply watches.
The Upanishad describes the first bird's state with devastating precision:
"On the same tree, the person is immersed, grieving from powerlessness, bewildered."
Three Sanskrit terms. Three aspects of Mitch Robbins's entire monologue.
Anīśayā: Powerlessness
Anīśayā comes from an- (without) + īśa (lord, master, controller).
Mitch's exact words: "The minute he took away my authority, I should have quit."
This is anīśayā in modern corporate English. The loss of agency. The feeling of being controlled rather than controlling. The sense that life is happening to you rather than through you.
Mitch can't even wipe his nose without permission. His authority—his sense of being a doer, a decider—has been stripped away. And without that, he's adrift.
But here's what's profound: He knows he should have quit. He sees the problem clearly. But he didn't quit. Because the bewildered bird doesn't know how to stop eating. It only knows how to taste the next fruit, chase the next goal, grasp at the next thing that might restore the feeling of control.
The powerlessness isn't just about his boss. It's about time itself: "Your 20s are a blur... what happened to my 20s?"
He had no control over the passage of time. No control over his body's decline. No control over his children's choices. No control over the ultimate trajectory—from authority to dependency, from "deciding which commercials" to "babbling with a nurse you call Mama."
Anīśayā is the bewildered bird's fundamental condition.
Śocati: Grieving
Śocati comes from the root śuc—to grieve, to mourn, to lament. It's present tense, active voice: "he grieves."
Not "he grieved once." He is grieving. Continuously. Actively.
Every line of Mitch's speech is a lament:
"Your 20s are a blur" = grief over lost time
"What happened to my 20s?" = grief over unconsciousness
"You grow a pot belly, another chin" = grief over the body's betrayal
"The music is still loud but it doesn't matter because you can't hear it" = grief over diminishment
"How come the kids don't call?" = grief over isolation, irrelevance
"Babbling with a nurse" = grief over the final loss of dignity
It's not one loss. It's a cascading series of losses, decade by decade, each one stripping away another layer of what he thought made him him.
And the bitter comedy is that he's warning the young man in the class. He's trying to say: "This is what's coming. This is the trajectory." But what he's really doing is grieving out loud.
The bewildered bird tastes fruit after fruit—some sweet (the power of your 20s, the purpose of raising a family), some bitter (the pot belly, the procedures, the silence from the kids)—and grieves because none of them provide lasting satisfaction.
The sweet fruits don't last. The bitter fruits hurt. And in between, time accelerates incomprehensibly.
Śocati is the soundtrack of the bewildered bird's life.
Muhyamānaḥ: The Bewildered One
Muhyamānaḥ comes from the root muh—to be confused, deluded, perplexed, bewildered.
It's a present passive participle: "the one being bewildered." Not someone who was once confused and figured it out. Someone who is actively, continuously in a state of bewilderment.
This is the heart of Mitch's monologue.
"Your 20s are a blur."
Why? Because he was so consumed by doing, experiencing, reacting that he never witnessed what was actually happening. The decade passed in unconsciousness.
"What happened to my 20s?"
Pure muhyamānaḥ. He was there. He lived through them. But he has no idea what happened. The bewilderment isn't philosophical—it's existential.
"Breakfast the night before."
Time itself becomes scrambled. The natural order—night, morning, breakfast—collapses. This is what happens when the reference point (the witnessing bird, the unchanging Self) is completely absent. Without that stable center, even basic temporal markers dissolve into confusion.
"Looking for the ultimate soft yogurt."
After 70 years, he's still searching. Still believing the next thing will satisfy. The goal has shrunk from career success and family pride to soft yogurt—but the pattern persists. The bewildered bird still thinks: "Maybe this fruit will be the one."
"How come the kids don't call? How come the kids don't call?"
The repeated question. The muttering. This is moha—delusion—in its purest form. He followed the script: worked hard, raised a family, made money. He did everything "right." So why isn't he happy? Why is he alone? Why didn't the fruits satisfy?
The bewildered bird cannot answer these questions because it cannot see the pattern. It's too close. Too absorbed. Too identified with the tasting.
"You end up babbling with some Jamaican nurse your wife can't stand but who you call Mama."
The final image of bewilderment. Identity dissolves. Time collapses. The authority he lost at the radio station, he never recovered. Now he's calling a stranger "Mama"—regressed, confused, unable to distinguish past from present, self from other.
Muhyamānaḥ from beginning to end.
The Mantra of the Bewildered Bird
When you put all three terms together, you get the complete picture:
"Anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ"
Powerless, grieving, bewildered.
This is Mitch Robbins. This is the first bird. This is the jīva trapped in experiencing without witnessing.
And here's what's stunning: Billy Crystal performs this state with such precision that it maps exactly—not approximately, not loosely, but exactly—onto the 3,000-year-old Sanskrit description.
He's not quoting the Upanishads. He's not trying to illustrate Vedanta. He's just being honest about what an unexamined life feels like.
And that honesty reveals something the ancient rishis knew: This state—anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ—isn't culture-specific. It isn't time-bound. It isn't unique to modern capitalism or ancient India.
It's the default human condition when we live as the first bird without knowing the second bird exists.
The Question the Speech Raises
Mitch ends with "Any questions?"
The young man is speechless.
But there IS a question—one Mitch himself never encountered:
"Is there another bird?"
The Upanishad says yes. Sitting on the same tree, on a higher branch, there's a second bird. It doesn't eat. It doesn't grieve. It doesn't get bewildered.
It just watches.
And the teaching—the part Mitch never heard—is this:
"Juṣṭaṁ yadā paśyaty anyam īśam asya mahimānam iti vīta-śokaḥ"
"When he beholds the other, the Lord, and His glory, he becomes free from sorrow."
Not through eating better fruits.
Not through getting the kids to call.
Not through keeping his authority or avoiding pot bellies or finding the ultimate soft yogurt.
Through beholding. Through turning the head. Through recognizing: "That peaceful observer—that's also me."
But Mitch doesn't know this. So he delivers his devastating diagnosis and moves on to the next thing, the next decade, the next fruit.
Anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ.
Powerless. Grieving. Bewildered.
The Perfection of the Parallel
What makes Billy Crystal's performance so powerful—and so haunting—is that it isn't trying to be spiritual. It isn't trying to teach anything. It's just honest.
And that honesty accidentally reveals the same truth the Mundaka Upanishad pointed to millennia ago:
When you live as the bewildered bird—absorbed in tasting, reacting, grasping—you will grieve.
Not because you're doing something wrong.
Not because you chose bad fruits.
But because fruits—sweet or bitter—cannot provide the lasting satisfaction you're seeking.
They're designed to be tasted and to pass.
That's their nature.
And if you don't know about the witnessing bird—if you never turn your head—then your entire life becomes Mitch's monologue:
A blur. A series of losses. A muttered question. A babbling end.
Anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ.
That's the diagnosis.
The Upanishad offers a cure.
But Mitch never heard it.
Note: The Mundaka Upanishad verse is 3.1.1-2. "Samāne vṛkṣe puruṣo nimagno / anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ" — "On the same tree, the person is immersed, grieving from powerlessness, bewildered."
Billy Crystal's 'City Slickers' Speech and the Two Birds on the Tree
A scene from one of my favorite movies maps the feeling of being 'stuck.' Ancient philosophy shows a different path.
[Image: A stark, split image. On one side, a slightly bewildered or resigned office worker, perhaps with a subtle potbelly, looking at a clock. On the other, a sleek Tesla driving into a vibrant, futuristic sunset, with a subtle overlay of a serene, meditating figure.]
You know the scene. It’s from one of my favorite movies, City Slickers, and it’s easily my favorite scene. Billy Crystal’s character, Mitch Robbins, stands before his son's class for Career Day. He’s a burnt-out radio ad salesman, and the kids are immediately confused.
"Are you a disc jockey?" one kid asks.
"No," Mitch sighs, "I'm not a disc jockey. I sell time... for commercials."
Another kid’s hand shoots up: "So you decide which commercials to use and when?"
Mitch’s face tightens. "Well... no, it's not right. It used to be right. Seems now that I even have to check with the station manager if I want to wipe my nose. Community took away my authority. I should have quit."
This confession of powerlessness is the real start of the speech. It’s the sound of a man who has lost himself before he even gets to the part we all remember—a dim outlook on life that gets a knowing laugh from every adult in the audience:
Your 20s? “A blur.”
Your 30s? You raise a family, make a little money, and “you wonder what happened to your 20s.”
Your 40s? A "little potbelly," another chin...
Your 50s? A "minor procedure."
Your 60s? A "major surgery"...
Your 70s? Retirement... "muttering, ‘how come the kids don’t call?’”
Your 80s? A major stroke...
We laugh because it feels familiar. It’s a clear picture of a life lived on autopilot, a slow slide into regret and irrelevance.
But what if this isn't a prediction? What if it's a diagnosis?
And what if the cure was written down 3,000 years ago, and is being practiced today by the very people who are actively defying Mitch's timeline?
The Bewildered Bird and the Tree
Mitch Robbins’s entire speech is the lament of what ancient Indian philosophy calls the jīva—the individual, personal soul.
A powerful metaphor from the Mundaka Upanishad describes this exact feeling. It’s called Samāne Vṛkṣe, or "The Two Birds on the Same Tree."
The metaphor goes like this:
On the same tree (your life, your body) sit two birds.
The first bird (the jīva) is on a lower branch. It’s frantically eating the fruits of the tree—some sweet, some bitter. It’s so consumed by the experiencing and chasing that it feels powerless, bewildered, and full of grief.
The second bird (the Īśa) sits on a higher branch. It is silent, radiant, and detached. It doesn’t eat; it simply watches. It is the calm, eternal witness.
Mitch Robbins is a perfect example of this first bird.
His monologue maps directly onto the verse: anīśayā śocati muhyamānaḥ—"he grieves (śocati)... bewildered (muhyamānaḥ) by his powerlessness (anīśayā)."
Let's look at that breakdown through Mitch's life:
Anīśayā (Powerlessness): This is Mitch's core complaint: "Community took away my authority." The feeling of not being in control of his life is the source of his sorrow.
Śocati (Grieving): His cynical speech is a lament, a regretful inventory of a life he feels has been done to him.
Muhyamānaḥ (Bewildered/Deluded): This is the state of confusion. His "20s blur" and wondering "what happened to your 20s" is a great description of muhyamānaḥ. He was so sunk in the experience, the decade simply vanished.
He is tragically unaware that the second bird even exists.
The Upanishad says the grieving bird is freed from all sorrow the moment it stops eating, looks up, and beholds the glory of the other bird.
This "beholding" is the escape route. It’s a profound shift in perspective.
The Escape Plan, Part 1: The Inner Gaze (Dhyans)
The first step to stop being the grieving bird is to practice being the witness.
This is Dhyans, or mindful, focused attention. It's the practical, moment-to-moment act of "looking up."
It’s an antidote to the "blur." Dhyans trains you to be present, making your decades vivid and filled with conscious choices, not regret.
It reclaims your authority. The witness (Īśa) is never powerless because it is not reacting; it is observing. When you can observe your own stress and desires without being consumed, you reclaim true inner authority.
It transcends the body. The grieving bird is its potbelly. The witness has a potbelly. This separation is the key to freedom. You observe the decay without being plunged into grief.
The Escape Plan, Part 2: The Outer Drive (Your "Tesla Mission")
But "beholding" isn't just passive. You also have to change what you do. You have to align your actions with the glorious, detached purpose of the second bird.
Mitch Robbins's job is selling ad time. It's a transient, self-serving pursuit. It's empty fruit.
The antidote is to find your "Tesla Mission."
This has nothing to do with cars. It has to do with the ethos. Tesla's mission is "to accelerate the world's transition to sustainable energy."
This is a visionary purpose. It's a goal so big it transcends personal gain, ego, or a paycheck. It's a "why" that can weather any "how."
A "Tesla Mission" fights stagnation. A person driven by a profound, outward-looking purpose doesn't just "wander malls" in their 70s. They are too busy; their mission gives them energy.
It's unattached action (Karma Yoga). You act with 100% of your skill and passion, but your focus is on the mission, not on the "fruits" of your labor. This detachment liberates you from the anxiety and grief that plague Mitch.
It defies the timeline. Mitch's timeline is about decay. A purpose-driven life is about building. You're not just getting older; you're contributing to something that will outlast you.
Your Choice: The Blur or The Beholding
So, this leaves us with a choice.
Are we on the lower branch, frantically eating, letting the decades blur into a cynical joke? Are we living out Mitch Robbins’s timeline?
Or will we do the hard work of looking up?
Will we embrace Dhyans to cultivate the inner gaze of the witness?
And will we find our "Tesla Mission"—a purpose so big it pulls us out of our own head and into a life of meaningful, unattached action?
The City Slickers monologue isn't a prediction. It's a warning. You don't have to be the grieving bird.
You have the power to look up. And in that act, you become free.
