There are certain timeless truths that can be ignored only by the most callous among us. One such truth is the Buddhist concept of Triple Refuge: Buddham saranam gacchami—I take refuge in the Buddha (the Enlightened One or Teacher); Dhammam saranam gacchami—I take refuge in the Dhamma (the teachings or truth); and Sangham saranam gacchami—I take refuge in the Sangha (the community).

Confusion is the hallmark of modern times. Propaganda through electronic media and the creation of a consumer society have pushed the majority of people to live lives as cogs in the ‘machine of the world’. But there is also a minority who can see through this ‘game’ and refuse to succumb, albeit at a great cost. Their sensitivity draws them inward, and they live with the risk of becoming socially inept or losing their mental balance.

I just finished reading the novel 1Q84 by Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, which beautifully explores this problem in the contemporary world. A master writer, Murakami uses ‘The City of Cats’ as a metaphor for passive withdrawal from reality on a population level. In the novel, the protagonist misses his train, drifts into a town where cats live like humans, and slowly becomes trapped in a repetitive, silent existence. He, however, manages to escape by boarding the last train that passes through. Murakami’s warning is clear: If you disengage for too long, the world replaces you. After a point, there may not even be a train left to carry you away.

Murakami then discusses a ‘two-moon world’—a heightened perception experienced by certain individuals as a subtle shift in reality because of their superior cognitive ability. It is not consciously chosen. People sensitive to hidden layers of reality become aware of forces that others ignore and are pulled deeper into their inner world, a reality partly of their own making. In both cases, there is a withdrawal from the real world. One is an escape through dullness, the other is estrangement born of awareness.

Murakami maps two dangers of modern existence: the sleep of indifference—routine, unquestioned living and emotional withdrawal—which can eventually cause people to vanish quietly, as if permanently settled in the City of Cats. On the other hand, the perception of hidden truths creates its own burden. Feeling too deeply, such people risk losing their connection to shared reality and becoming isolated. What makes 1Q84 powerful is that its protagonists, Tengo and Aomame, neither fall into a City of Cats-like passivity nor dissolve into the madness of hyper-awareness. They hold onto each other. Love becomes the anchor to a shared, chosen reality.

If I extend this into the world of the Bhagavad Gita, the City of Cats represents tamasic drift (inertia, unconsciousness), the two-moon world reflects rajasic, overactive perception (restlessness, fragmentation), and the union of Tengo and Aomame points towards sattva (balance, clarity). Murakami, without naming it, is circling a very ancient truth: both dullness and hyper-sensitivity can disconnect us from reality. What restores us is meaningful connection. How do we remain truly alive in a world that either numbs us or overwhelms us?

What Sangham sharanam gacchami really implies is: ‘I take refuge in the Sangha (community).’ Here, the Sangha is not merely a social group. It is a field of shared awareness, a corrective mirror, and a stabilising force when perception becomes uncertain. Awakening (bodhi) is individual, but stabilising that awakening requires a community, because insight without grounding can drift. Enlightenment without relationship risks becoming delusion. The community protects truth from turning into isolation.

The Taittiriya Upanishad declares in its invocation:

सह नाववतु।
सह नौ भुनक्तु।
सह वीर्यं करवावहै।
तेजस्वि नावधीतमस्तु मा विद्विषावहै॥

May we be safeguarded together, and

Nourished in unity.

May we work with shared strength,

Learn to be luminous, and

Not fall into discord.

When we bring all this together, a deeper synthesis emerges: we do not merely need community for safety—we need it for illumination. Just as one mirror may warp, but many aligned mirrors reveal the truth more faithfully. Truth is not weakened by sharing—it is clarified by it, whereas isolation magnifies both illusion and emptiness.

The Taittiriya Upanishad does not say: ‘Let me be enlightened’; it says: ‘Let us be luminous together.’ And the Buddha does not say: ‘I am enough.’ He says: ‘Take refuge in the Sangha.’ When the path becomes subtle, and the inner sky grows vast, it is not solitude but shared presence that keeps the light from dissolving into darkness. All great teachers keep their bright students close to them. All great leaders are supported by capable and wise ministers. In good families, people have their dinner together, discussing how the day has passed.

With the world compressed into a mobile screen, it is possible to feel engaged yet remain untouched by real experience. One can drift into passive living—scrolling, consuming, becoming a cog in a larger machine—or, at the other extreme, become inwardly fragmented, overstimulated and socially withdrawn. Both, in different ways, distance us from truly living. What anchors me is the simple, enduring truth that life unfolds in relationships—in conversations with family, in unhurried moments with friends, and in small acknowledgements of the people who form the fabric of everyday society. These interactions are not incidental; they are what keep the mind steady and the heart awake.

So while I read a great deal, I also write by hand on paper, water the potted plants in my balcony, make my tea, and sit quietly to watch the sunrise. I never forward a WhatsApp ‘Good morning’ message; instead, I type it every day, addressing the recipient by name and the day—Monday, Tuesday, and so on. Despite my health condition, I make it a point to step out, visit institutions and speak to people—to engage with the living world, and to avoid becoming lost in my own mental world.

The bodily senses, I increasingly feel, are the true gift of being alive. Even gods are said not to possess bodies; only humans do. I have not yet fully understood the mind, but this much I am certain of: when it drifts too far from the body and its immediate surroundings, it tends to create its own difficulties, often leaving one in a waterless, deep well of despair. In this journey, I remain deeply connected to my friends from my university days—Sameer and Suresh Patel—and to my colleagues from DRDO—Adalat Ali, Sagar and Sheridon—and, above all, to my younger brother Salil. They are my anchors, my quiet points of return, my existential ‘earthing’.

At the same time, I remain mindful of how easily one can seek quick relief from stress or emptiness through harmful escapes, especially substance abuse, which only accelerates decline by weakening clarity, discipline and purpose. It does not resolve problems; it reduces our capacity to respond to them. In the end, I am reminded that life is not lost in a single dramatic moment, but gradually—through disconnection from people, from presence and from meaning. To remain truly alive is to stay connected to one’s surroundings, to be aware of others’ feelings, and thereby to remain grounded in a shared reality—not a prisoner of one’s own mental castle in a concrete jungle.