Close by in the memory my mind revisits a faraway scene, where between the two mountains, the horizon shows a slowly rising sun, as the sky shows a lighter shade of black.
I return to my present as the clock second’s needle moved to six, the first light will peek-a-boo over the edge of the world. Slowly, the walls of the neighbouring flat will turn pastel orange, reflecting the first rays of sunlight from the paint on its outer wall.
High up in the sky, birds—still invisible, hidden somewhere in the darkness—begin to chirp happily.
They seem to know.
The sun will be out soon.
And with the sun comes the beginning of another day: searching for food, collecting it, carrying it home, feeding the little ones.
The world has not yet awakened.
But the birds already know that morning is coming. This is almost the similar day in and day out. The circle of life goes on much like the seasons, in that moment there is joy, or sadness that engulfs the observing human.
This made me think of Sthitaprajña in Sanskrit is:
स्थितप्रज्ञ
It is commonly transliterated as sthita-prajña (स्थितप्रज्ञ), from:
- स्थित (sthita) — established, steady, firmly situated
- प्रज्ञ (prajña) — wisdom, discernment, higher understanding
So, literally, स्थितप्रज्ञ conveys the idea of “one whose wisdom is firmly established.”
This is the word used in the Bhagavad Gita, particularly in Chapter 2, verses 54–72, where Krishna describes the characteristics of a sthita-prajña.
And it fits our Somadutt story beautifully: steadiness of wisdom does not require the absence of emotion.
The story was compelling and wondered if the scene that I am enjoying is seasonal and it disappears with time.
In a Gurukul, two students, Mytra and Somadutt, hoped to earn their Guru’s blessing to continue their higher studies in Kashi. There was only one place available, and both boys competed for it. Between them, Somadutt worked hard throughout the year.
But when the results were announced, Mytra succeeded while Somadutt came second, losing his opportunity to go to Kashi. Mytra was naturally delighted. Yet when he saw Somadutt weeping over his disappointment, he gently questioned him, perhaps more from youthful certainty than malice.
“Did our Guru not teach us to remain balanced in joy and sorrow? If you are crying like this, have you forgotten what it means to be a sthita-prajña?”
There was a hint of pride in his words. Mytra believed he had understood the lesson. He had won, yet he did not see that his pride in being the successful student was itself another attachment.
Somadutt went to his Guru and spoke honestly about what troubled him. He questioned whether being a sthita-prajña—one whose wisdom remains steady—meant refusing to acknowledge or express emotion. If he could not feel sorrow when something mattered deeply to him, would he not be denying a part of what made him human?
The Guru did not argue with Somadutt.
Instead, before Mytra left for Kashi, he gave each boy a terracotta vessel. He marked one with a red spot and the other with a black spot. He instructed both boys to use their own vessel for fetching and drinking water.
A year passed.
When Mytra returned from Kashi, the Guru asked both boys to bring their vessels. The following day, he placed their vessels among several others and asked each boy to identify his own.
Neither could do so.
The red and black marks had disappeared.
The Guru then asked them to bring the water from their vessels. He poured the water from both vessels into a single container and mixed it thoroughly. Then he filled the two vessels again and gave one to each boy.
“Now,” he asked, “which water is yours?”
Neither boy could answer.
The Guru explained.
The marks on the vessels represented the experiences of life—joy and sorrow, success and failure, praise and disappointment. These impressions belong to the changing body and mind. They appear, remain for a while, and eventually fade.
But the water within remains water.
And when the waters were mixed, there was no longer Mytra’s water or Somadutt’s water. There was simply water.
The Guru’s lesson was not that they should become indifferent to life. Somadutt did not need to stop crying, and Mytra did not need to suppress his joy. Both responses were human.
What they needed to understand was that neither joy nor sorrow could become their permanent identity.
Mytra’s success was a moment in his life, not proof that he was greater. Somadutt’s failure was a moment in his life, not proof that he was lesser.
The red mark was not Mytra.
The black mark was not Somadutt.
The marks faded.
And the waters were one.
Perhaps this is the deeper meaning of sthita-prajña: to experience life fully without becoming imprisoned by its changing marks; to feel joy when joy comes and sorrow when sorrow comes, while remaining rooted in the deeper Self.
And then, perhaps, one final little line:
The marks may change.
The water remains.
That would bring us gently back to the image with which the Guru taught them.
