Reflections on Completing Vivekachudamani in 48 Days
Yesterday, I completed Vivekachudamani.
Approximately 480 pages, 581 shlokas, and 48 days of steady reading.
I felt an unexpected happiness—not merely because I had finished a profound text, but because I had finished it at all.
For many years, completing a book cover to cover was something I struggled with. I would begin enthusiastically, only to watch my interest fade after a few chapters. The excitement of starting was rarely matched by the discipline of continuing. Yet something seems to have changed in recent years.
Ever since completing the Srimad Bhagavatam, I have noticed a new relationship with books. I no longer approach them as intellectual projects to be conquered. I enter them as journeys to be lived. I sustain the rhythm. More often than not, I can sense when I will finish. The journey develops its own momentum.
And so, 48 days later, I arrived at the last page of Vivekachudamani exactly as I had imagined.
That, in itself, feels like grace.
A Book That Invites Inquiry
The joy of completing this text is matched only by the depth of what it contains.
Vivekachudamani, attributed to Adi Shankaracharya, is fundamentally a work of inquiry. It explores the nature of the Self, the limitations of identification, and the possibility of freedom through knowledge.
Its brilliance lies not merely in what it teaches but in how it teaches.
The text patiently examines the layers through which we experience life—the body, the senses, the mind, the intellect, and the various sheaths that wrap around pure awareness. It highlights how the mind itself becomes entangled in its own assumptions, and how even the intellect, so often trusted as the highest faculty, remains obscured by ignorance.
Again and again, the text points beyond what is changing toward that which never changes.
Toward that which witnesses.
Toward that which simply is.
Throughout the book, there is a recurring invitation to distinguish between the Real and the transient—not as an abstract philosophical exercise but as a lived investigation.
Who am I?
What remains when all identifications fall away?
What is it that experiences the changing states of life without itself changing?
These are not questions to be answered quickly.
They are questions to be lived.
The Sky Remains Untouched
Among the many examples in the text, one image remains with me more than any other.
The sky.
Clouds appear in it. Storms move through it. Rain falls from it. Thunder echoes across it.
Yet the sky itself remains untouched.
It is not made wet by the rain.
It is not darkened by the cloud.
It is not damaged by the storm.
The events occur within it, but they do not alter its nature.
There is something deeply liberating about this image.
Life brings success and failure, excitement and disappointment, praise and criticism. Thoughts arise and disappear. Emotions surge and recede.
Yet beneath all of this may exist a dimension of ourselves that remains untouched—like the sky.
The image is simple.
The insight is profound.
And it is one I suspect will stay with me for a very long time.
One Truth, Many Journeys
What fascinates me most about works such asVivekachudamani is not only the truth they point toward but the countless ways human beings arrive there.
Across cultures, countries, languages, and traditions, the forms differ.
The methods differ.
The stories differ.
Yet the questions remain remarkably similar.
Who am I?
What is reality?
What is freedom?
What remains when everything else changes?
The language may vary, but the inquiry continues.
This recognition creates a deep respect for diverse paths. One begins to see less contradiction and more convergence. Less separation and more unity.
Truth appears constant.
Human journeys do not.
And perhaps that is what makes them so beautiful.
A Different Person Returns
Every meaningful book takes us somewhere.
The best ones bring us back differently.
When I began Vivekachudamani, I was one person.
Forty-eight days later, I closed the final page as someone slightly altered by the journey.
Not transformed overnight.
Not enlightened.
Simply changed.
The world looks similar, yet not quite the same.
The questions have become more refined.
Some assumptions have softened.
Some confusions have become clearer.
Some certainties have disappeared altogether.
And that feels like progress.
Lessons Beyond the Content
The book taught me much about inquiry.
But it also taught me something practical.
Consistency matters.
There were days when understanding flowed effortlessly. A few pages would reveal more than I expected.
There were other days when concentration felt difficult. Sleep quality, energy levels, and mental clarity all played their role. Some days I moved quickly. Some days slowly.
Yet the important thing was that I continued.
One page.
Several pages.
A chapter.
Another day.
Gradually, the book completed itself.
Looking back, I realise that the greatest gift of this journey may not be a philosophical insight but the confidence that comes from keeping a promise to oneself.
To start.
To continue.
To finish.
Looking Ahead: Yoga Vasistha
As one journey ends, another begins.
My next companion will be Yoga Vasistha, translated and presented by Swami Venkatesananda of the Divine Life Society.
Even the premise feels extraordinary.
Here, Sage Vasistha—the revered family sage of the Raghu lineage—guides none other than Sri Rama. God, in human form, receiving instruction as a student.
What a magnificent way to begin a text.
The symbolism alone is powerful.
Wisdom remains valuable even for the highest.
Inquiry remains relevant even for the divine.
Learning never truly ends.
This time, however, there will be an additional experiment.
Unlike Vivekachudamani, which I read in physical form, Yoga Vasistha will be read largely on an iPad.
The medium changes.
The seeker remains.
I am curious to observe what happens when an ancient text travels through a modern screen. How does the experience differ? Does comprehension change? Does attention shift? Does the digital world alter the rhythm of contemplation?
Perhaps this journey will not only explore the relationship between the individual and the Absolute.
Perhaps it will also explore the relationship between the analogue and digital worlds.
The wisdom of the ancient.
The convenience of the modern.
The eternal meeting the contemporary.
For now, though, I pause.
Forty-eight days.
Five hundred and eighty-one shlokas.
One completed journey.
And a quiet sense of gratitude for a book that deepened my inquiry—and reminded me that finishing what I start is no longer a hope.
It is becoming a habit.