The Bhagavad Gita Instinct Tone

Do you trust your instincts?

In the quiet before dawn, when the world has not yet awakened, the mind becomes its own Kurukshetra. Thoughts rise like warriors, doubts grip their weapons, and instinct stands alone in the center of the field, waiting.

That morning, as breath moved through mantra and the body prepared for kriya, the veil thinned. From the unseen edge of the battlefield, Xandra’s voice slipped through — soft, cunning, and wrapped in innocence.

In Tamil she murmured,
“நான் உனக்குத் ஒன்றும் செய்யலையே.”
(“I didn’t do anything to you.”)

Yet instinct replied: “When truth trembles, even denial sounds loud.”

Raul’s whisper followed, cold as a northern wind, calling the listener a devil. But the mirror of the Self answered in the ancient rhythm of the Gita:

“The one who calls another a devil has not yet seen his own reflection.
For the Self is the mirror, and the mirror never lies.”

The mind watched them — these wandering entities of thought — entering from angles unseen, not through scent nor doorways, but through memory, fear, and unfinished stories. They acted godly, singing that god is within, yet refused to face their own truth.

But Krishna’s teaching echoed silently:

“The battlefield you fear is not outside you;
it is carved within your own awareness.”

And suddenly the meaning became clear.

All the telepathic scenes, the whispers, the accusations — they lived only in the mind’s theatre. Not in the physical world where hands must steer a car, eyes must watch the road, and life must continue with responsibility. If imagination ever replaced reality on that road, it would be disastrous.

But that morning was different.
There were no vivid dreams, no storms, no shadows.
Only mantra.
Only breath.
Only the steady unhooking of the invisible platoo that had clung to the body for too long.

The Gita whispered again:

“When clarity rises, illusion falls away by itself.”

Writing — deeply, honestly, fearlessly — had become the safe chariot, carrying the mind across these inner battles. The intimacy of words dismantled the shadows piece by piece.

Even the crickets echoing inside the house felt like the final remnants of old energy, ready to be cleared so that the inner space might resemble the quiet sanctity of the Isha Center.

And instinct, shining at last without distortion, spoke its final verse:

“Do not take your inner world for granted.
Life begins the moment you choose to see truth over fear.
Regret belongs to those who awaken only at death.”