A Monk who doesn't acknowledge Sanyasa and his concept of Consciousness

After finishing my interview with a young Hindu monk from Uttar Pradesh at Yogi Ramsuratkumar Ashram, I saw Palaniyappan again near the Ramanashramam turn, chain-smoking in his saffron robe. Although the interview was insightful, I won't be able to use it in my thesis because the monk refused permission to mention his name, believing that nothing of his reference should remain in this world once he is gone.  Out of respect for his idealism, I decided to share it here for what it's worth (otherwise, It wouldn't have been possible still under thesis guidelines, which prevent me from disclosing research details publicly before concluding the research) and also share the story of another intriguing character, Palaniyappan.

Let's refer to the monk as Swami. Swami was born and raised in a village near Allahabad. After completing his MPhil in Physics from Allahabad University, he pursued another Master's in Philosophy from the same institution. A life-changing event occurred during this period—a chance encounter with a young Hindu woman monk from France, a scholar of Asian philosophical traditions. At that time, Swami was filled with aspirations to make a mark in the world, and he found it shocking that this highly educated, young, and beautiful woman from another culture was abandoning all bodily comforts and pleasures to seek a meaningful life in a foreign tradition.

After several conversations with her, Swami was deeply moved. He packed his bags and followed her wherever she went for the next two years. Both travelled lightly, each with just a single cloth shoulder bag, and she carried her passport and visa. Together, they journeyed across India, meeting saints, gurus, and spiritual leaders. She worked on her book while Swami awakened to a new wisdom he had never known before. By the time she returned to her country, Swami had undergone a complete transformation into a Hindu monk.

I met him at Sheshadri Swami Ashram, sitting outside his room on the same cement bench as me. I was immersed in my observational drawings, jotting down notes as usual. Beside me lay a half-finished copy of Ways of Walking: Ethnography and Practice on Foot, edited by Tim Ingold and Lee Vergunst. After a while, he asked if he could look through the book. I agreed, and as I continued with my notes and sketches, I noticed that he had read more than I had managed in the next two hours in an entire week.

While preparing to return to my room, he asked if he could borrow the book after I finished reading it. He even offered to bring it back and hand it wherever I wanted. I told him it was a university library book and also quite expensive.

We finally agreed to meet this morning at Yogi Ramsuratkumar's Ashram, with the understanding that he would share his thoughts on the book. Unfortunately, his decision to remain anonymous ruled out that possibility. Below is the transcript of our conversation.

Conversation:

Swami: "Since we've agreed that you won't use my name or refer to me anywhere, let's begin our conversation."

Me: "Okay. How old are you?"

Swami: "I'm 35."

Me: "Why did you become a Sanyasi?"

Swami: "No, I didn't 'become' a Sanyasi. In fact, I didn't become anything. I'm still the same person. What changed is my perception of life."

Me: "Can you elaborate on what you mean by perception?"

Swami: "Theoretically, perception can be approached as either an objective exploration or a subjective inquiry."

Me: "I'm still unclear."

Swami: "Let me simplify it. One can live life with ideas and aspirations, working toward them in a controlled, goal-oriented manner—that's the objective approach. The other is to let life flow through you, allowing experiences to shape your journey. You no longer control your life; instead, you're like a wave in the ocean, inseparable from the sea. Many spiritual teachings glorify this as an enlightened state, particularly in religion. But philosophically, both approaches—objective and subjective—are essentially the same. They differ only in our perception. In Advaita, this confusion is referred to as Maya. To illustrate this, Shankara used the famous analogy of mistaking a rope for a snake."Me: "Why do you say it's allegorical? Shankara's entire philosophy of Advaita, especially against Nagarjuna's 'dependent origination' and 'Shunyata Vada,' hinges on this concept."

(He fell silent for a few moments.)

Swami: "You promised this conversation would only last 30 minutes, so let's avoid delving into philosophical debates. Let me clarify my earlier statement: I didn't become a monk; I changed my perception. To truly become a Sanyasi, one must transcend this confusion. You can have goals and subjective experiences, but a Sanyasi is someone liberated from the need to control them. They're free from both objectivity and subjectivity."

Me: "Can you explain that a bit more?"

Swami: "Think of a river. People expect it to flow toward the ocean, but the river doesn't choose that. Gravity pulls it to the lowest point. Along the way, the river carves its path, gathers water, and creates subjective experiences. But its 'goal' of reaching the ocean is simply gravity at work.

"Now, consider that rivers and oceans are both just water. So why do we differentiate between them? One flows through land, driven by gravity, and is called a river; the other remains a body of water held by gravity and called the sea. It's all the same force acting on water. Similarly, death is like the ocean—where life is ultimately headed, propelled by time. Life is like a river, full of experiences, but both are part of the same flow. Once you understand this, you see that a Sanyasi isn't separate from the material world. Except for their understanding of what drives change—whether they call it time, God, or universal consciousness—a Sanyasi is like everyone else. Ignore those who roam in saffron robes—they're often just trying to survive. A true Sanyasi understands this truth about life and remains detached from objective and subjective experiences while still living them."

Me: "Thank you for your time and this insightful conversation on life, perception, God, time, and consciousness. Will we meet again? How can I contact you if I need to?"

Swami: "There's no need. We're done. We had this interaction because of the book, and now that's over. You're free, and I'm free."

I thanked him and left the ashram, reflecting on our discussion. As I left, I noticed Palaniappan waiting for me, wearing the same saffron robe that our friend Swamy wore and pretending to be a Sadhu, as usual, for the 20 rupees I give him each day. He's not an evil man—just another character navigating this world. He was born into a life of poverty, and I was fortunate enough to be born into slightly better circumstances. Palaniappan and the Swamy had the same looks, and if I had not had the conversation, they both would have been beggars to me.

As Swami mentioned, we realize we are all part of the same consciousness when we shift our perspective. Some of us are like raindrops, while others become pools, streams, rivers, or oceans—depending on where we find ourselves or how we position ourselves in the flow of life in time.