In the quiet town of Lalgudi, where the morning light fell equally on schoolbooks, cricket bats, and the faces of friends, young Krishnan had begun to feel that many things pulled at him with unnecessary force. A handsome face in the classroom, the announcement of a new class monitor, a word of praise from the teacher—each left a strong impression and often disturbed his peace. He treated these impressions as solid and important, yet they left him restless.
One evening on the terrace he spoke of this to Uncle Venkatesh.
“Uncle, so many things I see and hear seem to take hold of me. I do not know how to keep my own mind steady.”
Uncle Venkatesh opened a volume of Epictetus' Enchiridion and read slowly:
“The body is the material for the physician;
land is the material for the agriculturist.
My own ruling faculty is the material for myself—
if I am good and wise.
The business of the wise is to use appearances conformably to Nature.
And what is Nature?
To assent to what is true,
to dissent from what is false, and
to remain in suspense about what is uncertain. How should one act?
Desire only the good,
feel aversion only toward the evil, and
be indifferent to what is neither good nor bad.”
He continued, “There is a simple daily practice. As soon as you rise in the morning, examine everything you see and hear. Ask: Is this independent of my will, or dependent on it? If it is independent—something outside your choice—then take it away from your concern. It does not stand examination. Cast it away. It is nothing to you.”
Krishnan listened carefully.
The next morning he began the practice. As he walked to school he saw a classmate who was widely admired for good looks. The old impression rose: “How fortunate that boy is.” Krishnan paused and applied the rule. “Is this appearance dependent on my will?” No—it was external. He gently set it aside. “It is nothing to me.”
Later the teacher announced a new monitor. A small wave of desire and comparison arose. Again he asked the question. The office of monitor was independent of his own ruling faculty. He let the impression pass without clinging or resentment.
When a difficult sum appeared on the blackboard, he examined it differently. Understanding the sum depended on his own effort and attention—things within his will. To this he gave his full assent and worked calmly.
Throughout the day he practised the same examination. Handsome faces, positions, praise, blame—most of these proved independent of his will. He trained himself to cast them away as nothing to him. What remained within his power—his own judgments, his effort, his choice to be honest or kind—he treated as the true material of his work.
At first the impressions returned strongly and the mind protested. Yet each time he applied the rule, the grip of external things loosened a little. He began to feel that his own ruling faculty was the only field he needed to cultivate.
Weeks later he sat again with Uncle Venkatesh as the sky turned deep blue.
“Uncle,” Krishnan said, “I am learning to examine every appearance. When something is outside my will, I try to take it away and treat it as nothing to me. When it concerns my own judgment and action, I give it care. The mind feels lighter, and I am less pulled about by what I see and hear.”
Uncle Venkatesh smiled. “That is the daily work Epictetus describes. Your ruling faculty is your proper material. Use appearances according to Nature—assent to the true, reject the false, and remain free from what is neither good nor bad. Continue this examination each morning and throughout the day. In time the mind becomes its own clear estate.”
In the soft dusk of Lalgudi, while many still rose and fell with every external impression, young Krishnan walked home with a quieter step. He had begun to treat his own ruling faculty as the true material of his life—examining what came before him, casting away what was not his, and working calmly with what remained under his will. And in that simple, repeated practice, he found a steadiness that no handsome face or high office could give or take away.