Why do we need discernment?

It is said that countless lifetimes culminate in the rare gift of human birth. The sages remind us with a timeless verse:

आहार-निद्रा-भय-मैथुनं च समानमेतत्पशुभिर्नराणाम् ।
धर्मो हि तेषामधिको विशेषो धर्मेण हीनाः पशुभिः समानाः ॥

āhāra-nidrā-bhaya-maithunaṃ ca samānam etat paśubhir narāṇām |
dharmaḥ hi teṣām adhiko viśeṣo dharmeṇa hīnāḥ paśubhiḥ samānāḥ ||

Food, sleep, fear, and mating are common to both humans and animals.
The unique distinction of humans is dharma. Without dharma, humans are no different from animals.

This verse sets the stage: while the basic instincts are shared, humans alone possess the faculty of buddhi – the discriminating intellect that can rise above instinct and turn toward freedom. Birth, eating, procreation, and sleep are common to all creatures, but buddhi sets humans apart. It is this faculty that can guide the jiva toward liberation. For now, let us turn to the buddhi itself, for it is both our compass and our mirror.

1. The Root of Suffering

What is the cause of human suffering? At its heart lies discontent. We are constantly chasing happiness, shunning unhappiness, and running wherever there is a ray of hope. The homeless person longs for a hut, the hut‑dweller for a shanty, the shanty‑dweller for a comfortable house, the householder for a mansion, and the mansion‑dweller for a palace. The chase never ends.

This endless striving reveals a deeper truth: every finite attainment carries within it the seed of dissatisfaction. Wherever there is a boundary, there begins the shadow of suffering. The mind, restless and unfulfilled, whispers: “This is not enough. I should be more.”

2. The Sense of Finitude

We experience life through many changing personas. As a baby, a toddler, a child, a teen, a young adult, an adult, a mature adult, and finally an elder – we have worn countless faces. In each stage, the body changes, the mind adapts, and the roles we play shift. At one time we are someone’s child, later a partner, then a parent, perhaps a grandparent. Each identity feels real in its moment, yet none remains constant.

The same is true of physical and mental attributes. We say, “I am muscular, I am thin, I am fat, I am anxious, I am calm.” But appearances and mental states are in constant flux. What we call “me” today is not what we called “me” yesterday. Change is inevitable in all these material characteristics – whether gross like the body or subtle like the mind.

This leads to great modern statements like “change is the only constant.” But it is not true. Change itself is observed against a backdrop of something unchanging. If everything were changing, there would be no way to recognize change at all. The very fact that we can say “this has changed” points to a witness that has remained steady through the change.

This raises a profound question: if all these attributes are fleeting, then what is it that remains through them all? Who is it that has experienced being a child, a partner, a parent, and now an elder? Who is it that has witnessed the body’s growth and decline, the mind’s joy and sorrow?

By pausing here, we begin to sense that there is something constant amidst the change – an unbroken thread of awareness that lends support to every experience yet remains untouched by it. In Vedānta, this is often quoted as the Self (Ātman), the silent witness behind all experiences. This gentle recognition prepares us for the deeper inquiry into māyā and misidentification.

3. Māyā and Misidentification

Here enters the force of māyā, the cosmic magician. Its power lies in two movements: concealment (āvaraṇa) and projection (vikṣepa). Concealment veils the Self from recognition, while projection makes us superimpose identity upon the body, mind, and roles. Thus, we say, “I am this body, I am this mind, I am this role,” forgetting the one who is simply aware of them.

Māyā is dependent – it does not stand on its own. It borrows its existence from the Self, just as a reflection borrows light from the sun. The world of names and forms appears upon the Self like waves upon the ocean – restless, varied, and ever‑changing – yet the ocean itself remains untouched.

This is why misidentification is so powerful. We confuse the screen with the movie, the rope with the snake, the shadow with the substance. The Self remains unaffected, but māyā convinces us that the fleeting is ultimate. In this confusion lies saṃsāra – the cycle of birth and death, joy and sorrow.

Discernment begins when we recognize māyā’s trick: that the attributes we cling to are borrowed, fleeting, and dependent. The Self alone is independent, permanent, and real. To see this clearly is to loosen the grip of misidentification and step toward freedom.

4. The Call to Discernment

Discernment (viveka) is the process of recognizing the permanent from the temporary, the infinite from the finite, the immortal from the mortal. It is not merely an intellectual exercise but a lived inquiry – one that begins in everyday experiences of limitation and culminates in the recognition of the Self.

This discernment is considered one of the preliminary qualifications (sādhana‑catuṣṭaya) for freedom. Without it, the journey cannot begin, for the seeker would remain entangled in misidentification. With it, the path opens: the intellect (buddhi) learns to separate what belongs to the finite body‑mind from what belongs to the infinite Self.

To see clearly is the first step; to abide in that clarity is the path itself. As the Upanishads declare: “The Self is eternal, the not‑Self is transient. Know the difference, and be free.”

Thus, viveka is not a one‑time act but a continuous refinement. Each moment of life offers the opportunity to ask: “Is this permanent or impermanent? Is this finite or infinite? Is this mortal or immortal?” In answering, the seeker gradually loosens the grip of māyā and moves closer to freedom.