Theory is grey, but life is green

From Squarespace

Krishna admonished the hero Arjuna, telling him not to be troubled by the appearances of fate. Even in death, one can attain the nirvana of Brahman.

— Fate —

In an ancient Indian kingdom, two branches of a royal family went to war over the succession to the throne. The protagonist, Arjuna, was a prince from one side. At the beginning of the story, the armies of both sides had already lined up, and the battle was about to begin.

At that moment, Arjuna began to waver. He asked Krishna, who was driving his chariot, to stop. He said, “The enemies before me are my elders, my teachers, my relatives, and my brothers. What good can come from slaughtering one’s own family? Even if I win the throne by killing them, it would still be a sin.” Realizing this, Arjuna wanted to withdraw from the battle.

Krishna, a divine being, listened and then said that abandoning one’s duty at the very moment it must be fulfilled is a grave wrongdoing. A person’s duty is to carry out their rightful role. He further advised Arjuna: act, but do not become attached to the results of action. Only then can one reach a state of transcendence, free from the illusions of the senses.

Krishna emphasized that one must understand “devotion” or “offering” — only then can one perform necessary actions without being attached to gain or loss. The clearest-minded person acts as an offering to the natural order, becoming part of it. Act for nothing; refrain from acting for nothing. Without desire, simply do what must be done. Only such a person can attain true happiness.

After persistently persuading Arjuna, Krishna revealed his true, complete form. He became the god of destruction, with countless hands, bellies, eyes, and mouths, boundless and all-pervading. Krishna said: “I am Time, the destroyer of worlds. I have come here to annihilate all. Even without you, the warriors before you would cease to exist—they have already been slain by me. Arjuna, become merely my instrument.” This is, in essence, the story told in the Bhagavad Gita.

Krishna does not exist within the same dimension as Arjuna. He is a higher-dimensional being. If time itself is a dimension of the world, then from his perspective, the past, present, and future of humanity occur simultaneously. Seen from this vantage point, human beings appear insignificant; almost everything in this vast universe lies beyond our control.

What we need to do is to free our actions from desire and align ourselves with the world. Only then can we survive in a world filled with suffering. This is what Krishna calls “offering.”

Kanas Grassland, taking from Xinjiang, 2025

— Reality —

In 2020, about a month before the college entrance exam, I returned to my hometown. I had a habit: every time I came home, I would greet my grandparents and say, “I’m back!”

But that time, I didn’t see my grandmother. So I asked my mother, “Mom, where’s Grandma?”
“She passed away this morning…”

I tried to squeeze out some tears, but none came. I was strangely calm. I didn’t know whether I should feel this calm, whether I should cry. Did I really love my grandmother? I didn’t know. All I could think was that I would never again be able to tell her that I had come home.

In 2021, as Lunar New Year approached, firecrackers exploded and every household was filled with celebration. Then suddenly: “Grandpa slipped!” That single sentence shattered the festive atmosphere. Everyone rushed upstairs. The first thing I saw was my grandfather lying on the ground. “Dad!” my father and uncles shouted. “Grandpa!” we grandchildren called. But he could no longer hear us. I stood there, looking at him, thinking: he must have gone to find Grandma. I would never again be able to wish him a Happy New Year. Fate is sometimes like this—it seems to enjoy playing cruel jokes on us.

If someone asks me whether I loved my grandparents, without hesitation I would say yes. But if they ask whether I cried when they passed away, I find it hard to give a definite answer.

I have always thought of myself as an emotional person, yet when my loved ones died, I remained so calm. I don’t know why. I only remember what is said in the Bhagavad Gita: death is merely a return to nature; the body is only a temporary dwelling. We simply continue to exist in another, unconscious form.

As a line from Coco says: death is not the end of life; forgetting is. Perhaps it was because of this belief that I did not cry. I felt that fate is simply this way: at every stage of life, we encounter both fortune and misfortune. Having a physical body is just one visible segment of a long journey. When the body dies, we continue in another form and carry on.

I have tried to live as the Bhagavad Gita teaches—to move forward without being held back by emotional attachments.

But one night, sometime after my grandparents passed away, I dreamed of them. In the dream, I lay beside my grandmother, resting my head on her lap as she gently stroked my face. My grandfather sat nearby, reading me a story. My eyes filled with tears.

Then I woke up. At some point, my tears had already soaked into the pillow. No matter how much I try to make myself “cold” or “detached,” even if I convince myself to feel nothing, a person can never escape being bound by emotions. No matter how much knowledge one has, no matter how deeply one understands—even if I have read the Bhagavad Gita, watched Coco, and understood everything Krishna told Arjuna—knowledge does not necessarily make life easier.

The heart always has reasons that the mind cannot comprehend. Feeling is not wisdom. Eliminating foolishness is not life. Life is simply life.

After all, all theories are grey.