Sitting at the Doorstep of Truth
I find myself standing at the threshold of another journey inward. And there’s something important about naming it from the beginning—as the most delightful parts of an adventure are often written in the side paths, the slips, the places of friction, and the sparks of beauty along the way.
For the next month, I’m living inside a training at Kripalu Yoga Center—a container designed not only to teach postures, but to invite us into the deeper practice: turning toward the Self with steadiness, curiosity, and care. My modern definition and idea of ‘yoga’ is dissolving, which is great. The root word, yuj, means “to yoke” or “to unite”—a practice of integration. Not just body with breath, but inner with outer, fleeting with eternal. Yoga isn’t about achieving a shape; it’s about remembering the wholeness that was never lost.
In philosophy class today, it was poetically defined as a ‘stilling toward the Self’ . And to understand this concept — we were told the story of Nachiketa.
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Nachiketa’s story begins with a ritual gone sideways. His father, Vajasravasa, was performing a great sacrifice—an offering meant to be noble and generous. But instead of giving his best, he offered what was of no real value: old cows, too weak to give milk.
Nachiketa, young but unshakably clear, saw the gap between appearance and truth. With a child’s directness, he asked: “Father, to whom will you give me?”
Some say he asked because he felt his father should offer something truly precious. Others say it was simply an innocent question—a child wondering if he too might be “given away.” Either way, his persistence struck a nerve. Irritated and ashamed, his father snapped: “I give you to Death.”
Those words could have been brushed off, but Nachiketa took them to heart. And that is where his courage began. He followed them—quite literally—to the house of Yama, the god of death.
Yama wasn’t home. So Nachiketa waited.
One night passed. Then another. Then another. Three nights in total. No food. No water. No complaint. He simply remained at the threshold, steady and unwavering.
When Yama finally returned, he was moved. Rarely had anyone—let alone a child—waited with such patience and resolve. To honor him, Yama granted three boons—sacred wishes that must be fulfilled.
Nachiketa’s choices were striking. He could have asked for wealth, power, or a long and easy life. Instead, he asked for peace in his father’s heart. He asked to learn the sacred fire ritual. And then, with the clarity of one who will not be distracted, he asked the deepest question of all: What happens after death? What is the Self that does not die?
Yama tried to deflect. He offered palaces, music, pleasures—anything to pull the boy away from this most difficult inquiry. But Nachiketa refused. He wanted truth, not glitter.
At last, Yama relented. He revealed what the sages had carried for centuries: the true Self—the Atman—is not body, not mind, not the fleeting tides of thought and desire. It is the silent witness, eternal, unburned by fire, untouched by death.
This story touched me. Because like Nachiketa, we too are invited to sit at thresholds—moments when the usual distractions don’t satisfy the deeper hunger. The practice being asked of us is not to rush past, but to remain, patiently, until truth itself reveals what endures.