'Bhranti'

BHRANTI 

Delusion or Misinterpretation 

A tale of seeing with closed eyes—and finally opening them.

We’ve all heard fragments of Dharma, half-truths wrapped in rituals, misunderstood over generations and passed down like heirlooms. Somewhere along the journey, what was meant to unite became a tool to divide. And the tragedy? We never paused to question—only followed.

Sanatan Dharma never taught division. It taught balance.

It never advocated discrimination. It defined duty.

What we call jati today, was once simply karma—one's chosen work, not one's birthright. It was Jati Vibhajan (division of duties), not Jati Bhedan (discrimination of people). But over time, we started confusing positions with prestige, and lost the real essence of Dharma.

In a quiet ashram by the holy Ganges, there lived a saint.

He was not famous, not loud. But there was something about his presence—peaceful like the river beside him, and firm like the mountains that watched over him.

His life was a discipline of simplicity. Every morning, before his prayers or Sadhana, he did something that puzzled his young disciple.

The saint would step out quietly and walk to the ashram's Mali—the humble man who tended the plants, cleaned the rooms, fetched the water. He would softly touch the Mali, close his eyes for a moment, and then walk to the Ganga, sprinkle her waters over himself, and return to begin his spiritual practices.

This was his daily ritual. And the chela (disciple) observed it in silence. 

At first, the young disciple thought he understood.

“The Mali is a Shudra,” he reasoned to himself. “Our texts say Shudras are untouchable. Maybe Guruji purifies himself after accidentally touching him.”

But the more he watched, the less sense it made.

Why would he touch the Mali first, if he considered him untouchable? Why make it part of his daily practice?

Confusion grew like a knot in his heart. But out of fear—or perhaps reverence—he never asked. Until one day, he did.

That morning, as the sky turned orange and the air was still cool, the disciple stood waiting. As the saint returned from the river, drying his hands in the soft sun, the disciple stepped forward.

“Guruji… may I ask something?”

The saint paused, looked into his eyes, and smiled, as if he had been expecting this question.

“Every day,” the disciple continued, “you touch the Mali before your Sadhana, then go to the Ganges. I couldn’t understand it. Forgive me, but… is it because you think his touch makes you impure?”

The saint chuckled gently, the way only those who carry the burden of wisdom can.

“Come with me,” he said, walking to his study. He took out an old manuscript and opened it carefully. The parchment smelled of age and sanctity. He pointed to a verse and read aloud:

> “The Brahmin came from the mouth of the Cosmic Being,

The Kshatriya from His arms,

The Vaishya from His thighs,

And the Shudra from His feet.”

(Rigveda 10.90 – The Purusha Sukta)

Then, looking into the disciple’s eyes, he asked:

“Tell me, child… when you stand before the deity, where do your hands go first?”

The disciple answered softly, “To His feet, Guruji.”

The saint smiled.

“Exactly. We never touch the mouth, or arms, or thighs of God. But we bow at His feet. We begin our prayers there. Not because the feet are lesser—but because they are the foundation. The beginning of surrender. The seat of humility.”

“When I touch the Mali,” he continued, “I’m not purifying after his touch. I am purifying through his touch. For he represents the feet of that same Divine Paramatma. And the Ganges, too, flows from His feet. That’s why I touch both—the Mali and the Ganga. One reminds me of service. The other reminds me of sanctity. Both keep me grounded.”

The room fell silent.

The disciple’s heart trembled—not with doubt, but with the weight of realization. He had lived under a misconception, nurtured by half-knowledge and misheard verses.

He bowed, this time not out of habit—but out of understanding.

That day, something changed.

The disciple began to see people, not positions. He saw the divine not in idols alone, but in the actions of those who served without recognition. And he realized how many live like he once did—confused, not cruel; misled, not malicious.

We misunderstood Dharma.

We mistook order for oppression.

We made caste about birth when it was meant to be about karma—one’s actions, one’s duty.

The Brahmin guides & teaches, the Kshatriya  fights & protects, the Vaishya sustains & trafes, the Shudra serves & takes care. But none are lesser.

What good is a crown if it stands on no ground? And what power do words have without hands to make them real. 

God sees no caste. He sees character.

And perhaps, so should we.

Let us remember: discrimination was never divine—it was man-made.

But so can be transformation.

Maybe all it takes… is to ask the right question, and be willing to unlearn what was never true.