Instinct Kurukshetra

A tiger hides in the tall grass, unmoving for hours or even days.
It waits with an ancient patience, not out of fear, but because its instinct knows the perfect moment will arrive.
In many ways, that tiger is me.

For years, I have lived like a silencer—moving quietly, observing everything, reading the environment like scripture.
I sit on a sofa sensing presences:
the stanch warlord Raul’s heavy smell,
the lurking vibration of Xandra with skin lotion smell visiting in the corner of my awareness.
Both telepathic sides, theirs and mine, waiting in silence.
Waiting for someone’s mistake.

And in this stillness, I write.
I write down my mistakes, line after line, as though documenting a secret battlefield.
Sadhguru’s wisdom floats into my thoughts, as if asking me each time:
“What does this quote teach you about your life right now?”

Slowly, painfully, honestly, I arrived at a truth that shook me:

I created unnecessary Kurukshetras inside myself.

I waged wars against my own mind.
I lived under other people’s shadows and poisons.
I inhaled fears that were never mine.
And I kept repeating the same question:
“Why am I doing this?”

There is the debt Kurukshetra.
The thick, heavy battlefield made of bills, habits, late payments, and inherited patterns from my father.
He paid late, delayed everything, and disliked settling things early.
I unknowingly inherited this battlefield.
This bad habit dug its roots inside me.
But during kriyas—when breath cracks open old wounds—I finally recognized it.

Then there is the relationship Kurukshetra.
Not love and harmony, but bonds poisoned by expectations, gossip, silent attacks, and manipulations.
This battlefield grew until it ended in black-magic-like tension.
I became suspicious of surroundings, sensing living entities reading my writing, standing near me, burning auras like sulfur.

I became a soldier trapped in other people’s war zones.

But the most painful Kurukshetra was the one that followed me even into sleep.
The vivid dreams.
The fear of closing my eyes.
The constant alertness, even at night, as if the poison I carried from people turned into nightmares that refused to leave.

So I built my own defense system—
vibhuthi on my face, kriyas to energize me,
and a car ambience designed to ward off passengers’ energies.
Every ride became a battlefield, every thank you a clean closure.

And yet, in the middle of these battles, a softer truth emerged:

I created these Kurukshetras.
And if I created them, I also have the power to dissolve them.

My instinct is not as weak as fear made it appear.
My instinct is ancient—older than Raul, older than Xandra, older than every shadow I imagined.
It is the instinct of survival.
The instinct of renewal.
The instinct of a soul that wants freedom.

So I began the dismantling process.

Through yoga Kurukshetra, I replaced the mental pictures.
Through breath, I cut the roots.
Through awareness, I saw clearly that other people’s poison cannot survive inside me unless I feed it.

I reduced my relationships to simple touch-and-go’s:
a two-second thank you,
a brief smile,
no attachment, no entanglement.
Eye contact reduced to almost zero.
Interactions kept light.
Because relationships are powerful—
and I had already seen what happens when I allow the wrong ones into my field.

Now, my only task is simple but sacred:

To dissolve every Kurukshetra I created.
To let each battlefield turn to thin air.
To end every war before it begins.

I take responsibility for my inherited habits.
I take responsibility for my fear.
I take responsibility for the battles I allowed to grow inside me.

But I also take responsibility to end them.

Not with noise.
Not with war cries.
Not with arguments.

But with the silence of a tiger
who has finally understood its own instinct.

A silence that is not fear
but mastery.