If I Could Un-Invent Something

If you could un-invent something, what would it be?

This is my story written as inner vision, where death stands for ego-collapse and unbearable truth, not physical harm.

Bhagavad Gita – Chapter 2, Verse 19
“He who thinks that the Self kills, and he who thinks that the Self is killed, both are ignorant. The Self neither kills nor is killed.”

If I could un-invent something, it would be the belief that touching another person’s inner world is harmless.
The book had already left my hands.

Once a book is given, it no longer belongs to the writer it becomes a mirror. Some see themselves clearly. Some grow angry at the reflection.
That night, while I sat in sadhana, still and inward, the sound came from the other side pages flapping hard, sharp, restless. The smell of new paper travelled through the air, unmistakable. Not the scent of learning, but of disturbance. Yet inside me, there was no storm. Only quiet.

Peace does not react. Peace observes.
I understood then: the one who once rocked my boat had not stopped rocking. Whether knowingly or unknowingly did not matter. Mind games do not need intention to be dangerous. A careless hand can still overturn a vessel.

Morning came. Voices floated questions asked lightly, without weight.
“What does the Siva Peruman song sound like?”
Some songs are not meant for curiosity. Some songs are sung only when the ego is ready to dissolve. When sung without readiness, they do not bring liberation they bring fear.
There are people who call for truth the way children call for fire without knowing its heat.

By afternoon, I could see him clearly not with eyes, but with understanding. A man seated, hands clasped, suit pressed, mind unsettled. Not angry now. Confused. Troubled. Wondering why a book could do this to him.

He was not facing my words.
He was facing himself.
Truth does not attack. It stands.
And when it stands, those unprepared feel as though death itself is present.
But what dies is not life.
What dies is illusion.
No song can predict death.
No chant can summon it.
No book can kill.
What is unbearable is not the truth—it is the resistance to it.

Bhagavad Gita – Chapter 2, Verse 27
“For one who is born, death is certain; and for one who has died, birth is certain. Therefore, you should not lament over the inevitable.”

The danger was never the song.
Never the book.
Never the writer.
The danger is believing one can play with another’s inner world without consequence while forgetting that truth listens back.