I awaken, disoriented in a haze of swirling lavender. The world around me shimmers with ephemeral geometry, as though I have stumbled into the very skeleton of creation. Before me looms a colossal form that is radiant with countless eyes and has its luminous limbs reaching beyond the horizon. Fractured shards of light pierce out and pulse in sync with a heartbeat. I sense an ancient presence orchestrating these transformations like a cosmic sacrifice. I rub my eyes in disbelief, confident that I am merely trapped in a vivid dream, for how could the infinite stand so clearly before me? Abruptly, I jolt awake in a dimly lit room, breath ragged. The memory of that unfathomable figure lingers with its vastness undermining my grip on reality. Four tall bookshelves occupy each wall, loaded with worn volumes. A lone circular desk stands in the centre, polished yet forbidding. No windows, no doors, no exit. I circle the room in alarm, my heart thumping. Could this still be a dream? A voice whispers, "Read", though I cannot locate its source. Reluctantly, I approach one bookshelf bearing gilt letters: "Ṛgveda Saṁhitā." The others, also Saṁhitās, read "Yajurveda", "Sāmaveda", and "Atharvaveda". I possess only rudimentary Sanskrit skills, yet these ancient texts seem entirely legible. Over countless days, I consume every hymn. I neither hunger nor thirst. My only craving is knowledge. At last, I replace the final book onto its shelf, and the entire room dissolves. I now stand in an immense courtroom, columns stretching into a sky etched with shifting script. Seated at the centre is Varuṇa, draped in oceanic blue and gold, a luminous noose in his hand. He poses a single question, his voice resonating in my core: "What manner of theism do the Vedas uphold?" Before I can respond, Varuṇa's form glitches into Indra, then Mitra, then Agni, then Yama, each flickering like flames. In that wave of transformations, I sense they are many yet one: henotheism, gods converging on a single divine essence. At once, the cosmic court shatters, and I find myself back in the same room, but the shelves are different. They now house the Brāhmaṇas, elaborate commentaries explaining the force of Vedic mantras. Alongside them appear the six Vedāṅgas: Śikṣā, Vyākaraṇa, Chandas, Nirukta, Kalpa, and Jyotiṣa. As I read the Brāhmaṇas, understanding dawns like a slow-burning flame. The mantras I hold are not just words, they are power, woven into the very fabric of ṛta, the cosmic order. With the knowledge of the auxiliary texts, I am no longer a mere observer. I can compel the gods I met earlier, bend the forces that govern existence. Gold, grain, prosperity, they are no longer beyond my reach. Yet my confinement remains. What use is such power if I cannot escape? The shelves vanish, replaced by a corridor lined with narrow windows. Through each pane, I see a horrifying vision unfold. First, I witness a hundred sages chanting around a fire, the same mantras now etched into my mind. Their unified voice fuses with the dancing flames, pulsing in ancient rhythm. I blink. The image warps into a chain of dogs, each biting another's tail, locked in ceaseless, mindless pursuit. Suddenly, a shrill cry redirects me. On the other side, I see a blood-soaked horse sacrifice, princes cheering the violent ritual. Another blink and the horse transforms into a cosmic being with dawn as its head, sun as its eye, air as its breath, and time as its body. A cosmic principle emerges: these rites are not mere acts but living symbols that must be internalised, not just observed. The corridor narrows into a twilight forest inhabited by the Āraṇyakas, bridging outward ritual and inward exploration. Past that, I plummet into star-filled space. The Upaniṣads float before me with their luminous verses that capture the ultimate truth. Touching them floods me with insight, culminating in the Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad, the last of the texts I seize. At once, the cosmic tableau rearranges. Varuṇa reappears, and asks me about Brahman: "What is it? How does it manifest?" "Brahman… is that which expands. It is the principle from which all emerges, into which all dissolves. It is the unseen force that manifests as the universe itself.", I reply. I mention the saprapañca conception from the Chāndogya Upaniṣad, describing Brahman's real transformation into the world, and niṣprapañca from the Bṛhadāraṇyaka, revealing Brahman as utterly transcendent and its transformation being only apparent. "And what of Ātman?", Agni asks. I inhale sharply. “It is the self, the essence within. The Upaniṣads say the search for the ultimate truth is not merely outward, but inward. The Taittirīya Upaniṣad describes five sheaths, but beyond all these is Ātman itself. It is not seen, but it sees. Not heard, but it hears. Not thought, but it thinks.” A final question by Yama: "What is the ultimate truth?" "That Brahman and Ātman are one," I say, the words coming as though not from me, but through me. "Tat tvam asi. Aham brahmāsmi. The fullness beyond and the fullness within are not two, but one." Gods vanish like doused flames, the courtroom collapses, and I awaken again to shattering glass. My friend stands over me, holding in his hands a shattered phone. He claims I was out for twenty minutes. I recoil: aeons of cosmic exploration squeezed into that span. He laments lost photos and data and mentions something about being in the middle of watching an anime about someone trapped in philosophical interrogation. My mind lurches, questioning whether that was me or if I still remain trapped in overlapping illusions. The edges of my awareness blur. A soft chuckle sounds. Ādi Śaṅkara stands before us, his presence serene yet commanding. My friend gapes at him. He explains that according to Advaita Vedānta, only Brahman is sat, the absolute, unchanging reality. Mere non-existence, or asat, has never been real at any point. The world, however, is sad-asad-vilakṣaṇa, distinct from both reality and non-reality, it functions within empirical experience but lacks absolute permanence. This appearance arises due to māyā, which veils Brahman, and avidyā, the ignorance that binds individuals to illusion. He further elaborates that all Vedāntic schools derive from the same Prasthāna-trayī: the Upaniṣads, the Bhagavadgītā, and the Vedānta-Sūtra. Yet, their interpretations differ as Advaita asserts non-duality, while Dvaita affirm real distinctions. I asked him if the vivid dream, which felt so real before I woke up, was just as illusory as what I am experiencing right now. He smiles and explains that while all experiences lie within the realm of sad-asad-vilakṣaṇa, experiences such as dreams are considered prātibhāsika, sublated the moment one awakens. My friend counters that his broken phone feels concrete. Śaṅkara confirms daily life is vyāvahārika, where cause and effect operate. Yet from the pāramārthika level, distinctions vanish into nirguṇa Brahman, free of any attribute. Saguṇa Brahman, endowed with qualities, is how the limited mind conceptualises the absolute under the veil of māyā. Prayer, devotion, or moral duty revolve around saguṇa Brahman, which remains valuable for spiritual growth. At this point, my friend's eyes light up with curiosity: "What are the two views on cause and effect?" Śaṅkara inclines his head. "Satkāryavāda, which Advaita Vedānta accepts, holds that the effect pre-exists in its cause in a subtle form. Asatkāryavāda, favoured by Nyāya-Vaiśeṣika, contends the effect is produced anew, not latent in the cause." He conjures two more terms: pariṇāmavāda (Sāṃkhya) and vivartavāda (Advaita). "In pariṇāmavāda, the substance actually transforms. In vivartavāda, the change is an appearance. The rope never becomes a snake; perception alone shifts." My friend, seeking confirmation, asks "So Brahman doesn't literally become the universe, it just appears so?" "Precisely," Śaṅkara confirms. "Brahman remains unaltered, while forms are mere vivarta." Śaṅkara expounds on adhyāsa, superimposition, which is the process by which an individual mistakes one thing for another by projecting certain qualities onto what is actually there. In the context of the Self, adhyāsa involves ascribing non-self qualities (like bodily attributes, emotions, or limitations) onto the pure consciousness that is one's true nature. We discuss spiritual practice. Śaṅkara outlines the path of śravaṇa (listening), manana (reflecting), and nididhyāsana (meditating), culminating in the direct realisation of "tat tvam asi". My friend wonders if calling the world an appearance excuses moral disregard. Śaṅkara clarifies that true realisation fosters empathy, seeing all beings as the one Self. Only a superficial reading would produce apathy. Authentic knowledge, anchored in the scriptural basis, intensifies compassion. His words trail off. I sense a faint fragrance of sandalwood. Then Ādi Śaṅkara vanishes like a candle flame in the wind. My friend and I lock eyes. The phone's shattered screen glints on the floor, a testament to vyāvahārika reality. Yet an undercurrent of something vast hums around us, reminding me of the corridor of cosmic illusions, the swirling galaxies of knowledge. We gather the phone shards, preparing for the mundane task ahead, every motion echoing with the truth we have tasted: that behind every fleeting form lies the eternal Brahman.

A Dream of Eternity, A Conversation Beyond Time