Evolving the Mindset via Non-dual Philosophy

Most of us assume we have one mind. We say “my mind is restless” or “my mind won’t stop” as if there is a single thing in there making all the trouble. But Vedanta looked more carefully than that, a long time ago, and said — actually, it is not one. There are four functions at work, and until you see them separately, you will keep blaming “the mind” without knowing what you are blaming.

Let us look at them one by one.
The first is **manas**. Manas is the part that receives. A sound comes, a sight comes, a memory floats up, and manas starts to churn. Is this good? Is this bad? Should I worry about this? It is like a gatekeeper who lets everyone in and then panics about the crowd. On its own, manas has no ability to decide. It just keeps turning things over. If you have ever lain awake at night going round and round on the same thought without reaching any conclusion, that is manas running on its own with nobody to guide it.

The second is **buddhi**. Buddhi is supposed to be the one who decides. When manas brings something forward, buddhi should say — yes, this is worth your attention, or no, let this go. Think of buddhi as the elder in the house. When the elder is alert, there is order. But the problem is that buddhi often goes to sleep, or worse, it starts working for the ego. We have all done this — built a perfectly logical argument for something we wanted to do anyway. That is buddhi being hired by the wrong employer.

In our tradition, Sir often says that meditation is what wakes buddhi up. You do not sharpen discernment by reading more books about discernment. You sharpen it by sitting still. When the noise settles, buddhi begins to function on its own, the way water becomes clear when you stop stirring it. There is nothing to force. You just have to stop disturbing.

The third is **ahamkara**. This is the one that says “I” and “mine.” My achievement. My insult. My family. My opinion. Now, without some sense of “I,” you cannot function at all. You cannot eat breakfast or cross the road. The trouble is not that ahamkara exists. The trouble is that it grows without limit and starts to believe it is the whole person. It takes every passing experience and stamps ownership on it. Then when something threatens what it has claimed — my position, my image, my comfort — it reacts, and suddenly we are in conflict, inside and outside.

Advaita Vedanta says something very direct about this. The Self is not the ego. The ego is a function, a kind of working fiction. It is useful, like a name tag at a conference — it helps you navigate. But you are not the name tag. In meditation, when you watch a thought arise and then dissolve, you notice that the one watching did not dissolve with it. That small noticing, if you stay with it, begins to loosen ahamkara’s grip. Not by fighting it, but simply by seeing through it. This is something one has to experience for oneself. No amount of reading about it will do the work.

The fourth is **chitta**. Chitta is the storehouse. Every impression, every memory, every tendency you have carried — chitta holds it all. It is the reason a particular tone of voice can upset you even when the words are harmless. It is the reason you are drawn to certain things and repelled by others, often without knowing why. These are old recordings, playing in the background.

We cannot wipe chitta clean. That is not how it works. But we can change what we are feeding it. When we sit honestly in meditation, that goes into chitta. When we catch ourselves reacting and pause instead, that goes in too. A small act of kindness done without needing anything back — that also leaves an impression. Over time, the old recordings lose their volume. The newer impressions begin to set the tone. Sir has compared this to sweeping a room. You do not need to study each grain of dust. You sweep every day and the room stays clean.

Now, behind all four of these — behind the churning, the deciding, the claiming, the storing — Vedanta says there is something else. The witness. Sakshi. It does not churn, it does not decide, it does not claim, it does not remember. It is simply aware. When the four instruments quiet down, even for a few seconds, this witness is not created or achieved. It is recognized. It was there the whole time. We just could not hear it over the noise.

This is what the tradition means by refinement of the mind. It does not mean making the mind clever or filling it with more knowledge. It means seeing clearly what the mind actually is — an instrument, not the master. And behind the instrument, the one who was always watching.

So how does this work in practice? Sit daily. Even if the mind wanders, sit. Watch what manas is doing without getting involved. Let buddhi wake up in its own time. Notice when ahamkara inflates, and instead of scolding it, just see it. Let chitta do its replaying, and do not get pulled in. Over weeks and months, something shifts — not dramatically, not with fireworks, but like the slow clearing of a sky after rain.

And alongside the sitting, examine your day. How did I behave? Where did I react when I could have paused? Where was I completely occupied with myself when I could have looked at someone else? Both of these together — the sitting and the self-examination — are sadhana. One without the other is incomplete.

The mind is a good servant and a terrible master. Vedanta and our Nath tradition both agree on this. Refine the instrument, and it serves you. Leave it unattended, and it will run your life in circles. The choice, as always, is ours.
Om Tat Sat.