Jiva and Atman: A Story of Self-Discovery Through the Upanishads
How an ancient parable helped me understand the peace that comes from living as both the experiencer and the observer.
In my own spiritual exploration, I often return to the Upanishads, not just for intellectual clarity but for the quiet wisdom they offer about the human condition. One story in particular has stayed with me for years. It speaks to the core of what I believe many of us are looking for: peace, presence, and a deeper understanding of ourselves. Today, I want to share that story from the Upanishads and how it has changed the way I live my life.
Two birds sit on the branch of a tree. They are of the same kind and are inseparable companions, never having left each other’s side since birth.
One is called Jiva, the other Atman.
Jiva eats the fruits of the tree, some sweet and some bitter, thus experiencing both joy and sorrow. While Jiva indulges in the fruits, Atman simply watches. He does not partake. He neither celebrates Jiva’s pleasure nor mourns his pain.
Atman remains still, serene, and detached, simply acknowledging what is in front of him.
At times, Jiva becomes so absorbed in his pursuit of the perfect fruit that he forgets Atman is there, quietly present beside him. Occasionally, he glances over, puzzled, perhaps even envious, wondering how Atman can remain so peaceful without craving or grasping. Simply just being. Tired from the endless chase, Jiva begins to long for that peace.
As seasons pass, Jiva’s wisdom deepens. Eventually, he discovers something profound. Through contemplation, he comes to the awareness that Atman is not separate. Atman is him.
With that realization, sorrow begins to dissolve. Jiva still tastes the fruits, still sweet and still bitter, but now he is undisturbed. He understands that this is the nature of life. And he knows he can fully participate in the world while remaining rooted in the calm, witnessing presence of his true Self.
Reflection
This story has gifted me a perspective that has helped tremendously. We are both the experiencer and the observer of life.
The experiencer is the self we know, the individual who plays roles, feels emotions, and faces life’s highs and lows. The observer, on the other hand, simply watches the experience unfold. Both are us.
I don’t believe self-awareness or enlightenment is some mystical ability reserved for a chosen few. I don’t think you need to renounce anything in life. I feel it’s a lot simpler than that. With knowledge and practice, it can be integrated into daily life.
Self-awareness is recognizing that we are aware of what this material body is doing, and how it’s doing it.
How I Practice Awareness
I used to think it required long hours of meditation, seated in one pose. But for me, it came through something else: bringing full attention and intention to whatever I’m doing in the moment.
Even something as mundane as doing laundry no longer feels dull. Or visiting a museum with my daughter. Each experience feels equally rich. No moment is favored over another in quite the same way. Even during hard times, the emotional states I once constantly exhibited are less overwhelming. Lamenting on unfavorable situations for too long only leads to a spiral of emotions that drain the precious moments I do have.
When struggle and pain arrive, so be it. And when joy comes, it’s welcomed too. But neither owns me.
The Parable of the Horse
Another story I often reflect on is this well-known parable:
Once, there was an old farmer who had worked his land for many years. One day, his horse ran away. Hearing the news, the neighbors came to offer sympathy. “Such bad luck,” they said.
“Maybe,” the farmer replied.
The next day, the horse returned, bringing three wild horses with it. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed.
“Maybe,” said the farmer.
The following day, the farmer’s son tried to ride one of the wild horses. He was thrown off and broke his leg. The neighbors again expressed sorrow over the misfortune.
“Maybe,” said the farmer.
A few days later, military officers came to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son had a broken leg, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer.
“Maybe,” he said again.
This kind of detachment and equanimity is what the Vedas refer to as the Higher Self, or Atman.
The Atman is the unchanging, eternal essence beyond our ever-shifting experiences. A metaphor might be to view our material life as clouds. We all go through ups and downs, and that cycle never ends. As we grow older, we witness more loss, illness, and increasing responsibilities. And in today’s digital world, our self-worth is often dictated or ridiculed by standards we should not internalize.
However, beyond all this turmoil is Atman, the clear blue sky. That is the Self: ever-present and unaffected.
Understanding that there is both an experiencer and an observer allows the experiencer to live with greater peace and fulfillment. And perhaps that’s what we are all truly seeking.
Of course, this may be an oversimplification. The Upanishads goes in depth regarding themes of this nature. There are many schools of thought and philosophical frameworks for living a more peaceful life.
But these days, I find deeper meaning in simply living with intention.
This doesn’t mean my ego, or my Jiva, no longer appears. He certainly does.
And hats off to those who have fully dissolved their egos. But my goal isn't to eliminate the ego or deny the joys of life.
Rather, it’s to remain grounded in a mindset that understands everything material I hold dear, and even the things I don’t, will one day pass. And that’s okay.
With love,
Anand