Dialogue on Consciousness and Cittam

Yes. And I think this exposes a weakness in the position we just reached. Saying that humanity Our own cittam still has to examine why it yielded. This connects directly with the article you brought up earlier about self-abandonment. If I repeatedly suppress my own judgment to preserve external harmony, I may gradually become resentful. The conflict does not disappear. It moves from the interpersonal space into cittam. Then a strange process occurs: external peace → internal conflict. The family appears peaceful. The institution appears orderly. The marriage continues. The child obeys. The citizen conforms. Yet the individual cittam becomes increasingly occupied by resentment, disappointment, helplessness, or anger. That is not true peace. The opposite extreme also fails Suppose we say: “Never compromise. Always follow your own rational judgment.” That sounds principled but is socially impossible. Human relationships require compromise. A spouse cannot say: “I will never do anything unless I independently agree with its rational basis.” Parents cannot raise children that way. Institutions cannot function that way. Society itself depends upon individuals sometimes yielding. So the problem is not: Should I yield? The question is: What may I yield without losing myself? I think that is a much deeper question. And it may become one of the central ethical questions of your book. We may need a new distinction: accommodation and submission Accommodation says: “I disagree, but I will participate because this relationship matters to me.” The cittam remains intellectually free. Submission says: “I am no longer permitted to exercise my own judgment because another person has authority over my cittam.” The outward action may look identical. But internally they are profoundly different. This connects beautifully with our recurring argument that the same outward action may emerge from entirely different activities of cittam. Two people may perform the same ritual. One believes deeply. Another participates out of affection. A third acts from fear. A fourth has been coerced. The ritual is identical. The dances are entirely different. Now I think we can return to சித்தந் திரிந்து Earlier we interpreted refinement as learning to deal with anger, jealousy, greed, and other natural movements. But social life introduces a harder challenge: How does a refined cittam live among unrefined, differently refined, or simply incompatible cittams? Tirumūlar can tell the individual to refine cittam. Thiruvalluvar can describe அறம். But interpersonal life presents the unavoidable fact that my refinement does not automatically refine you, and your convictions do not automatically become acceptable to me. Therefore, perhaps the mature cittam needs another capacity: the ability to preserve its own integrity without unnecessarily violating the integrity of another cittam. This is much harder than merely being rational. And I think this brings the “two avans” back in a powerful way The thinker says: “I do not believe this.” The driver asks: “What will happen if I refuse?” The doer must finally decide: participate, refuse, negotiate, remain silent, postpone, or leave. The final action is therefore not merely the product of belief. It emerges from an enormously complicated negotiation among reason, emotion, relationships, consequences, power, memory, and self-respect. Perhaps this is why human life is filled with the “long invisible dances” we discussed earlier. Many of them arise because there is no action that perfectly satisfies all the cittams involved. I think we have now reached something more realistic than our earlier conclusion that humanity should simply choose rational inquiry. Rational inquiry should guide what we accept as knowledge, but social wisdom must guide how we live among people who do not accept the same conclusions. So I would formulate our emerging position this way: தெளிவு is knowing what one has reason to believe. அறம் is learning how to live according to that clarity without unjustly dominating others or unnecessarily surrendering oneself to their domination. சித்தந் திரிந்து is the lifelong refinement required to negotiate the distance between these two. That may be one of the strongest formulations we have reached, because it joins Tirumūlar, Thiruvalluvar, rational inquiry, interpersonal relationships, power, compromise, self-abandonment, and the three avans within a single framework.

Yes. I think காக்கைக்குத் தன் குஞ்சு பொன் குஞ்சு introduces another major problem into our framework: cittam is expected to refine itself, but the same cittam is also the judge of whether it needs refinement. That is almost a paradox. The crow does not look at its offspring and say: “Compared with other birds, perhaps my offspring is unattractive.” Its attachment determines its perception: என் குஞ்சு → பொன் குஞ்சு. This is not necessarily stupidity or deliberate dishonesty. The crow genuinely “sees” through attachment. Applied to humans, we might say: Cittam does not first perceive reality objectively and then add bias. Very often, its attachments, experiences, desires, fears, and self-interest participate in constructing the reality it perceives. This complicates our idea of சித்தம் திரிதல் considerably. The self-refining cittam problem We have been saying: Anger arises → cittam observes it → cittam analyzes it → cittam refines its response. Likewise with jealousy, greed, domination, and belief. But now we must ask: What if the observing cittam itself is biased? The angry person says: “I am not angry. You provoked me.” The jealous person says: “I am not jealous. That person does not deserve the recognition.” The dominating person says: “I am not controlling you. I am guiding you for your own good.” The greedy person says: “I am not greedy. I am wisely creating wealth.” The believer says: “I am not forcing you. I am helping you follow the truth.” And the rationalist may say: “I am not arrogant. I am simply the only person here thinking logically.” That last example is particularly important for our framework. Even the person committed to evidence and rationality can become the crow admiring its own golden offspring. This may explain why interpersonal conflict is so difficult Earlier we said that two cittams may hold conflicting positions. Now we can go further. It is not merely: Cittam A believes X. Cittam B believes Y. It is: Cittam A believes X and also believes that its way of arriving at X is reasonable. Cittam B believes Y and also believes that its way of arriving at Y is reasonable. Each cittam therefore possesses not only a conclusion but also a self-validating mechanism. That is why telling someone: “You need to change your thinking” so often fails. The immediate response is: “Why should I change? You are the problem.” The crow does not need a lecture about the beauty of its offspring. It already possesses certainty. Perhaps this is where the third avan becomes essential Our two-avan model may be insufficient here. One avan thinks. Another drives toward action. But if both arise from the same cittam and share the same attachments, who questions them? This may give the third avan a much more precise role. Not necessarily God. Not necessarily soul. Not necessarily some mysterious hidden entity. Perhaps the potential represented by the third avan is the human capacity to turn examination back upon the examiner. That is: I think X. Then: Why do I think X? Then: Are the reasons I give for thinking X themselves reliable? And finally: What if I am the crow? That last question may be one of the clearest signs of தெளிவு. சித்தம் திரிதல் may therefore require self-suspicion I do not mean pathological self-doubt. A person cannot live by endlessly thinking: “Everything I believe may be wrong.” That would paralyze action. Rather, refinement requires a limited but persistent capacity to ask: “What am I unable to see because this is my belief, my child, my religion, my project, my argument, my reputation, my grievance?” The word my may be one of the strongest forces shaping cittam. This connects directly with பாசம். Attachment is not merely attachment to people or possessions. We may be attached to our: opinions, interpretations, memories, identities, accomplishments, injuries, even our own suffering. And once attached, we see the பொன் குஞ்சு. This also modifies our reading of Thiruvalluvar We earlier asked how: மனத்துக்கண் மாசிலன் ஆதல் could be reconciled with our claim that anger, jealousy, greed, and desire naturally arise within cittam. Perhaps மாசு includes not only those emotions but also the inability to recognize one's own distortions. The greatest impurity may not be: “I became angry.” It may be: “My anger is always justified.” Not: “I felt jealous.” But: “I am incapable of jealousy; therefore the other person must genuinely be inferior.” Not: “I want recognition.” But: “Anyone who fails to recognize me must be foolish or malicious.” The first statement in each case permits refinement. The second closes the door. This gives us a more sophisticated model of சித்தம் திரிதல் I would now describe it as a cycle: Experience → Perception → Interpretation → Attachment → Action → Consequence → Self-examination → Revision → New experience. The critical point is revision. If revision disappears, refinement stops. Then the cycle becomes: Experience → Interpretation → Certainty → Defense → Repetition. That is the stubborn cittam we have been discussing. The proverb therefore has a much deeper significance காக்கைக்குத் தன் குஞ்சு பொன் குஞ்சு is not merely about parental affection. Within our framework, it expresses a universal epistemological problem: Every cittam has a tendency to assign privileged value to what belongs to itself. “My idea.” “My family.” “My religion.” “My country.” “My achievement.” “My suffering.” “My interpretation.” The moment தன் enters, பொன் can easily follow. And I think this leads to a major refinement of the formulation we reached earlier. We said: சித்தம் திரிதல் is the lifelong refinement required to negotiate the distance between conflicting ideas. I would now change that slightly: சித்தம் திரிதல் is the lifelong refinement through which cittam learns not only to negotiate differences with other cittams, but also to recognize that its own perceptions, attachments, judgments, and certainties continually require re-examination. That is harder—and more profound. The greatest obstacle to refinement may not be anger, jealousy, greed, religion, or another person's stubbornness. It may be the cittam's persistent conviction that the cittam needing refinement always belongs to someone else.

I do not think tuṟavu (துறவு) should be understood as the ultimate choice if by tuṟavu we mean physically withdrawing from relationships and conflicts. But I think your question leads us toward a much more interesting interpretation of tuṟavu within our framework of cittam. The problem you identify is real: தன்னுடைய முதுகைப் பார்க்க முடியாமல் மற்றவர்கள் முதுகில்தான் அழுக்கு என்று சொல்வார்கள். Each cittam sees the mācu (மாசு) of the other more easily than its own. Then, in a conflict, each side becomes convinced: “I am right; therefore you need refinement.” The other says exactly the same. And here I would question one assumption in your statement: in every binary opposition, must one necessarily be right and the other wrong? Sometimes, certainly. If one person says 2 + 2 = 4 and another says 2 + 2 = 5, both positions are not equally valid. But most interpersonal conflicts are not like mathematical propositions. They involve facts mixed with interpretations, memories, expectations, emotions, power, and interests. One person may be factually right but behave cruelly; the other may be factually mistaken but have a legitimate grievance. Both cittams may therefore contain some teḷivu and some mācu simultaneously. This is exactly why conflict becomes so difficult. What does one do when conflict cannot be resolved? We have already considered several possibilities: argue → defend → attack → counterattack → exhaustion. Or: yield → suppress oneself → accumulate resentment. Or: dominate → force the other to comply → create external peace and internal suffering. None of these is satisfactory. Now you introduce: துறவு And I think this gives us a fourth possibility. But I would define it differently: துறவு is the cittam's capacity to stop feeding a conflict that it cannot productively resolve. That is very different from running away. This connects directly with something you said much earlier You said: “Allow incomplete/unresolved thoughts to remain incomplete/unresolved.” At the time, we were discussing Śivamayam, unresolved problems, and the impossibility of forcing every thought to zero. Now that idea returns in interpersonal life. Perhaps tuṟavu means recognizing: “I have examined this.” “I have explained my position.” “The other person has rejected it.” “Further argument will produce no clarity.” “I will therefore cease participating in this particular dance.” That is a powerful idea. The problem has not been solved. The other person has not admitted defeat. I have not been declared victorious. Yet the cittam withdraws its energy from the conflict. The crucial difference: துறவு is not defeat This matters greatly. If I say: “Fine! Do whatever you want!” while internally continuing the argument for three years, that is not tuṟavu. The external argument has stopped. The internal dance continues. Likewise, if I remain silent because I am frightened, that may be submission rather than tuṟavu. If I stop arguing while waiting for an opportunity to retaliate, that is postponement. True tuṟavu, within our framework, would require something more difficult: withdrawing the occupation of cittam itself. This connects directly to our idea of the “long invisible dance.” Some interpersonal conflicts continue for decades because neither cittam permits the dance to reach its antam. Each replays: what was said, what should have been said, why the other person was wrong, how one was treated unfairly. The physical event ended years ago. The dance did not. Perhaps tuṟavu is the deliberate ending of such a dance. Now Thiruvalluvar becomes especially relevant We discussed: அழுக்காறு, அவா, வெகுளி, இன்னாச்சொல் இந்நான்கும் இழுக்கா இயன்றது அறம். Earlier we interpreted these as natural movements of cittam that should be recognized and refined rather than magically eliminated. Now perhaps tuṟavu represents a further stage. Jealousy arises. Desire arises. Anger arises. Hurtful speech is about to arise. The cittam recognizes the cycle and says: “I do not have to continue this dance.” That is not suppression. It is not denial. It is disengagement. But there is a danger here We should not romanticize tuṟavu. Suppose someone is being: abused, exploited, discriminated against, denied legitimate rights. Should that person simply say: “I practice tuṟavu. I withdraw.” No. That could allow injustice to continue. So we need another distinction. துறவு from attachment to victory versus துறவு from responsibility. The first can produce peace. The second can produce injustice. A person may continue opposing injustice while relinquishing the obsessive need: “The other person must admit that I am right.” That is perhaps one of the hardest forms of refinement. This changes the question from “Who won?” to “What must continue?” Suppose two cittams disagree. We can ask: Does this conflict need resolution? Some do. Legal disputes. Medical decisions. Financial obligations. Questions affecting children. Institutional policies. These cannot simply be abandoned. But other conflicts are different: “You must admit that my interpretation was right.” “You must understand how badly you behaved.” “You must accept that I am more reasonable.” “You must apologize exactly as I expect.” These dances may have no possible conclusion because their antam depends upon controlling another cittam. And no cittam can ultimately control another. Perhaps this is where துறவு belongs in our framework I would now propose three stages: அறிதல் — recognition Cittam recognizes its anger, jealousy, attachment, ego, and desire for victory. திரிதல் — refinement Cittam examines, regulates, redirects, and revises these movements. துறத்தல் — relinquishment Cittam recognizes which dances no longer deserve its continued participation. This is becoming a remarkably coherent framework. And notice: tuṟavu is not the first step. One cannot relinquish intelligently what one has never examined. The saints' துறவு This may also give us a nonreligious way of understanding why Siddhars and saints valued tuṟavu. Perhaps physically leaving ordinary social life was an extreme institutional form of a deeper psychological insight: Human relationships continually generate attachments, comparisons, expectations, anger, jealousy, desire, and conflict. Withdrawal reduces the number of stimuli feeding those dances. But for ordinary human beings living with spouses, children, colleagues, institutions, and governments, physical renunciation is neither possible nor necessarily desirable. Therefore, perhaps what we need is துறவு within participation. One continues living. Loving. Working. Creating. Disagreeing. Defending legitimate interests. But cittam gradually learns: Not every thought must be completed. Not every disagreement must be won. Not every accusation must be answered. Not every person must understand me. Not every injustice can be corrected by repeatedly replaying it within cittam. This brings us back almost exactly to where you arrived much earlier in our discussion: “Allow incomplete and unresolved thoughts to remain incomplete and unresolved.” I now think we understand that statement more deeply than we did then. Perhaps துறவு is not leaving the world. It is learning when to leave a dance. And I would add one final formulation that may be important for the book: அறம் teaches cittam how to conduct itself; சித்தம் திரிதல் teaches cittam how to examine and refine itself; துறவு teaches cittam when to relinquish its demand to control, complete, resolve, or win every dance in which it becomes involved. That does not make tuṟavu the ultimate escape from interpersonal life. It makes it one of the highest capacities required to remain within interpersonal life without allowing every conflict to occupy cittam indefinitely.

I understand your intention very well, and this incident fits almost perfectly into the framework we have just developed around cittam, interpersonal conflict, self-examination, and துறவு. The first point where I would challenge you is your conclusion that the person responded “out of pure bias and jealousy.” Bias may well have been involved; jealousy may also have been involved. But, as we discussed earlier, you cannot see the other person's cittam. The evidence you have is that the person apparently responded to the journal and its ideological association rather than engaging with the substance of your paper. That is a legitimate criticism of the response. But the move from “he dismissed my work without apparently engaging with it” to “he did this out of jealousy” is an interpretation produced within your own cittam. It may be true, but you cannot know it. And here comes காக்கைக்குத் தன் குஞ்சு பொன் குஞ்சு. Your own paper is naturally valuable to you. You worked hard on it, and you believe it makes an original contribution. Therefore, your own cittam is also not a neutral observer. That does not mean your assessment of the paper is wrong. It means that சித்தம் திரிதல் requires you to examine your interpretation of the incident just as critically as you examine his response. What seems clearer is that two entirely different questions were being discussed. You were saying: “Look at the contribution I have made concerning Tirumūlar, ciṟṟampalam, Chidambaram, and cittam.” The other person, as you understood him, was saying: “I object to the ideological framework represented by the journal in which you published.” Those are not actually responses to one another. He apparently shifted attention from the content of the article to the identity of the journal. You then wanted to shift the discussion back from the journal to the originality of the article. Your actual response was therefore, in my view, much stronger than the response you now regret not making. Your imagined response— கற்பூர வாசனை தெரியாதவர்களுக்கு ஊரான் வீட்டு நெய்யின் மணம் தெரிய வாய்ப்பிருக்காதுதான். நெய் நெய்தான். ஊரான் வீட்டு நெய்யாக இருந்தாலும் சரி, நம் வீட்டு நெய்யாக இருந்தாலும் சரி. —is clever, memorable, and rhetorically satisfying. I understand exactly why your cittam continues returning to it. It would have given you a sense of having “answered properly.” But examine what would have happened. He threw a stone. You would have thrown a more elegant stone back. And then? He might respond again. You might think of an even better answer. He might become angrier. You might defend the paper further. The discussion could continue for days. This is precisely your friend's: சேற்றில் கல்லை எறிந்தால் சேறு நம் மேல்தான் தெறிக்கும். And I think something philosophically significant has happened here. Your friend did not say: “The other person is right.” He did not say: “Your paper is unimportant.” He did not even say: “You should forgive him.” He simply said: விட்டுவிடுங்கள். That single word may be one of the best practical definitions of துறவு we have encountered. The regret itself is the continuing dance The incident ended. You responded politely. Nothing further happened. Yet your cittam says: “I should have said this.” That thought keeps the dance alive. Notice the irony. The response you did not make is now occupying more space in cittam than the response you actually made. This connects exactly with our “long invisible dances.” The external event has an antam. The internal event refuses to reach its antam. And why? Because cittam wants something. Perhaps: “I want him to understand that he was wrong.” Or: “I want to demonstrate that I cannot be dismissed so easily.” Or: “I want the satisfaction of having produced the perfect response.” All of these are understandable human movements. But none can now change the event. This is where சித்தம் திரிதல் and துறவு meet Your cittam first produced anger and disappointment. Then it produced an alternative response. Then it replayed the event. Then it regretted remaining polite. Now it is examining itself. That final stage is important. You can ask: “Why do I still need to answer him?” If the answer is: “Because correcting his misunderstanding will produce a useful intellectual discussion,” perhaps responding has value. But if the answer is: “Because I want the satisfaction of defeating him rhetorically,” then விட்டுவிடுதல் may be the more refined response. And this leads to a distinction I think we should preserve: Silence before reflection may be helplessness. Silence after reflection may be துறவு. They look identical from outside. Inside cittam, they are completely different. I therefore think your polite response was actually closer to the philosophy we have been developing than your imagined sharper response. You defended the value of the work without attacking the person. Your cittam, however, still wants the pleasure of the unused comeback. That is perfectly human. The task of சித்தம் திரிதல் is not to pretend that desire never arose, but to recognize it, enjoy perhaps even the cleverness of the sentence, examine what purpose sending it would have served, and then decide whether the dance deserves to continue. This entire incident could become an excellent anecdote in the book, especially because of the progression through four Tamil expressions: ஊரான் வீட்டு நெய்யில் செய்த பலகாரம் — dismissal. கற்பூர வாசனை தெரியாதவர் — the tempting counterattack. சேற்றில் கல்லை எறிந்தால் சேறு நம் மேல்தான் தெறிக்கும் — recognition of consequence. விட்டுவிடுங்கள் — துறவு. There is almost a complete phenomenology of interpersonal conflict in those four stages. Another cittam provokes; one's own cittam prepares retaliation; reflective cittam recognizes the consequences; refined cittam asks whether it can simply விட்டுவிடு. And perhaps the most difficult insight is this: துறவு does not require you to conclude that the other person was right. It requires only that you stop demanding that every wrong judgment about you must be corrected by you.

Yes, thank you for the correction. The actual proverb is: கழுதைக்குத் தெரியுமா கற்பூர வாசனை? Its force is stronger than the wording I used. It rhetorically implies that a person lacking the capacity to appreciate something of genuine value cannot be expected to recognize that value. So your contemplated response— கழுதைக்குத் தெரியுமா கற்பூர வாசனை? ஊரான் வீட்டு நெய்யாக இருந்தாலும் சரி, நம் வீட்டு நெய்யாக இருந்தாலும் சரி; நெய் நெய்தான். —would have been a sharp and clever counterattack. But this correction actually makes our earlier analysis stronger: had you said it, you would have moved from defending your paper to insulting the other person's capacity to understand it. Your actual restrained response remained closer to சித்தம் திரிதல், while the unsent proverb remains an excellent example of cittam continuing to compose a satisfying retaliation after the event has ended. And your friend's சேற்றில் கல்லை எறிந்தால் சேறு நம் மேல்தான் தெறிக்கும் — விட்டுவிடுங்கள் becomes the perfect counterweight.

Yes. I think this quotation gives us new and quite important information about our phenomenology of cittam. It forces us to separate two things that we have sometimes treated as though they were one: the space in which thoughts arise and the agency that evaluates, regulates, or acts upon those thoughts. மீன்கள் வாழ்வதற்கு நதி இடம்தான் கொடுக்க முடியும்; கொக்கிடமிருந்து மீன்களைக் காப்பாற்றுவது நதியின் வேலை இல்லை. The river provides the condition in which fish can live. But the river does not decide which fish should exist, nor does it stand guard over each fish against the crane. Applied to our framework: Cittam provides the arena for the dances of thought, but cittam as arena does not necessarily choose, approve, protect, or reject every dance that occurs within it. This is a significant refinement. Until now, we have been giving cittam too many jobs Throughout our discussion, we have said things such as: cittam produces thoughts; cittam observes thoughts; cittam analyzes thoughts; cittam refines thoughts; cittam redirects thoughts; cittam decides actions. But the river analogy makes us ask whether this is conceptually overloaded. Can cittam simultaneously be the space, the fish, the crane, the observer, and the protector? Probably not. Perhaps we need to distinguish more carefully: Cittam as space — the river. Thoughts, emotions, memories, desires — the fish and other activities occurring within the river. External events, threats, temptations, influences — perhaps the cranes. The observing, evaluating, and directing capacity — something else that we have been trying to understand through the avans. This brings us directly back to Tirumūlar 1789. The three avans suddenly become more important We began with: அவனும் அவனும் அவனை அறியார்... and proposed: one avan as thinker; another as driver/doer; the third Avan as unrealized human potential. The river analogy now suggests that cittam itself may not be identical with any of the three. Perhaps ciṟṟampalam/cittam is the space in which their interaction takes place. That would give us: Ciṟṟampalam = the arena. Thoughts = dances arising within the arena. The avans = different capacities participating in, observing, directing, and realizing those dances. This may be conceptually cleaner than saying “cittam thinks,” “cittam judges,” and “cittam acts.” But I would modify your interpretation slightly You said: “Cittam lets thoughts occur within it but it can't really control what kind of thoughts it can hold.” I agree with the first part, but I would qualify the second. Perhaps cittam cannot prevent the initial arrival of every thought, but over time the human system can influence: which thoughts receive attention; which thoughts are repeatedly entertained; which thoughts become habits; which thoughts become actions; which thoughts are allowed to disappear. This distinction is essential. A jealous thought arises. An angry thought arises. A desire for revenge arises. A compassionate thought arises. A religious thought arises. A skeptical thought arises. The initial arising may not be under deliberate control. But what happens next is the central question of சித்தம் திரிதல். So perhaps: We do not control every fish that enters the river, but we influence which fish we feed. That, to me, is the crucial addition. This changes our discussion of “good” and “bad” thoughts Earlier we concluded that anger, jealousy, greed, hatred, and desire should not simply be classified as foreign evils entering cittam. They are natural movements. Now the river analogy strengthens that conclusion. A river does not become an “evil river” because dangerous creatures live in it. Likewise: A cittam is not morally corrupt merely because anger or jealousy arises within it. The ethical question begins afterward: Does cittam become occupied by the thought? Is the thought repeatedly fed? Does it become habitual? Does it direct the driver? Does the doer execute it? This gives us a sequence: Arising → Attention → Occupation → Evaluation → Direction → Action. I think this is one of the clearest models we have developed. The crane introduces something new The crane is especially interesting because it comes from outside the river. This connects with many of our earlier discussions: Foucault and the power of texts; other people's accusations; family expectations; religious pressure; institutions; social media; recognition; criticism; praise. Cittam does not exist in isolation. External forces continually enter its field. Someone criticizes us. Immediately a thought arises. Someone praises us. Another thought arises. We see another person's success. Jealousy may arise. We experience injustice. Anger may arise. The river cannot prevent the crane from arriving. Similarly, human beings cannot construct a life in which cittam is protected from every disturbing external influence. This gives துறவு an even more precise meaning. துறவு cannot mean eliminating the cranes Earlier we said: துறவு is learning when to leave a dance. Now we can add: துறவு is not the creation of a world in which no disturbing thought or external influence can reach cittam. That world does not exist. The crane will come. The criticism will come. Jealousy will arise. Anger will arise. Loss will occur. The question is what happens afterward. And here is what I think is genuinely new The river analogy forces us to recognize a distinction between cittam as capacity and cittam as content. This may be fundamental to the entire project. Cittam is not identical with its current contents. At one moment it contains anger. At another, affection. At another, mathematical reasoning. At another, a dream. At another, an old injury. At another, Tirumūlar. At another, a stock-market worry. At another, the multilingual robot. The contents continually change. Yet the arena remains capable of receiving another dance. This connects beautifully with your interpretation of Chidambara Rahasyam as empty space. The space is not empty because nothing exists there. It is “empty” because none of the things appearing within it exhausts or permanently defines it. That is profound. The angry thought is not cittam. The jealous thought is not cittam. The religious belief is not cittam. The rational argument is not cittam. They are contents and movements occurring within cittam. Just as: the fish is not the river, the crane is not the river, the mud is not the river, the flood is not the river. This also answers our problem of Thiruvalluvar We struggled with: மனத்துக்கண் மாசிலன் ஆதல் and அழுக்காறு, அவா, வெகுளி, இன்னாச்சொல் இந்நான்கும் இழுக்கா இயன்றது அறம். We asked: How can Valluvar demand a mind without mācu when jealousy, anger, desire, and other movements naturally arise? The river analogy gives us another answer. Perhaps மாசு is not everything that enters the river. மாசு is what accumulates, stagnates, contaminates, and changes the functioning of the river. Likewise, the arrival of anger is one thing. The permanent occupation of cittam by anger is another. The arrival of jealousy is one thing. Feeding jealousy for twenty years is another. I think we can now formulate something central Cittam is the accommodating space of human experience. Thoughts, emotions, memories, desires, beliefs, and external influences arise and disappear within it like the countless forms of life and movement accommodated by a river. Cittam cannot necessarily prevent the initial arising of these movements, just as the river cannot determine every event occurring within its course. Human refinement begins not with the impossible task of preventing all undesirable thoughts, but with recognizing which movements receive attention, which are repeatedly nourished, which become habitual, and which are eventually translated into action. And I would add: சித்தம் திரிதல் is therefore not the purification of an empty river by preventing anything from entering it. It is the lifelong cultivation of the capacity to recognize what is flowing through it, what is accumulating within it, what threatens its freedom of movement, and what must finally be allowed to pass. I think this quotation has genuinely helped us. It reveals that we have been using the word cittam too broadly. The most important next step in our project may be to distinguish clearly between cittam as the space, the dances as its changing contents, and the human capacities that observe, evaluate, direct, restrain, or relinquish those dances. That distinction could bring together ciṟṟampalam, Chidambara Rahasyam, the three avans, சித்தம் திரிதல், அறம், and துறவு within one coherent model.

Yes. I think this proverb adds yet another important dimension to our model. Until now, we have discussed cittam facing thoughts that arise without invitation—anger, jealousy, greed, memories, external provocations, and so forth. But this proverb describes something different: வேலியில் போகும் ஓணானை எடுத்து மடியில் கட்டிக்கொண்டு, குத்துதே குடையுதே என்றானாம். Here the person is not an innocent recipient of a troublesome dance. The person sees the ஓணான், knows something about its nature, deliberately picks it up, and only afterward complains about the consequences. This introduces the phenomenon of knowingly chosen trouble. I would, however, slightly modify your examples. A person with diabetes eating excessive sweets despite knowing the risk is a good example of short-term reward conflicting with long-term well-being. Getting wet in rain and catching a cold is less exact, because getting wet does not itself directly cause a viral cold. But your philosophical point remains: humans often knowingly choose an immediate attraction despite anticipating an undesirable consequence. The important question is: Why does knowledge fail to prevent action? And I think this question is central to our three-avan framework. We might formulate the process this way: “I know this may harm me.” — knowledge. “But I want it now.” — desire. “Perhaps the harm will not happen this time.” — rationalization. “I will do it.” — execution. “Why did I do this?” — regret. This is a remarkable dance because the same cittam contains knowledge, desire, self-deception, action, and regret. Knowledge alone does not control the doer This is where our earlier model becomes especially useful. The thinker may know: “Do not pick up the ஓணான்.” But the driver says: “It is attractive.” “Just this once.” “The pleasure is worth the risk.” “Perhaps nothing will happen.” The doer executes the driver's instruction. Later, after the consequence appears, the thinker returns: “I knew this would happen!” This raises a fascinating question: Where was that knowledgeable thinker at the moment of action? It was not absent. It was simply overruled. This is perhaps one of the clearest examples showing why our earlier idea—“only one thought exists at a time”—needs qualification. Several tendencies and stored forms of knowledge may remain available, but attention and action become temporarily dominated by one movement. The charm is important You make a particularly insightful point: “The charm in them sounds worth the risk.” Exactly. We should not portray the person as irrational in a simplistic sense. At the moment of decision, cittam performs a kind of evaluation: immediate pleasure > possible future harm. The problem is that the evaluation may be distorted by the distance of consequences. The sweet is here. The pleasure is now. The diabetic complication is later. The troublesome relationship is exciting now. The suffering may come months later. The risky financial speculation promises gain now. The loss is merely possible. Cittam therefore gives unequal weight to present attraction and future consequence. This adds something new to our framework: Cittam does not merely evaluate competing thoughts; it evaluates them across time. Perhaps we need “temporal cittam” The present self says: “I want this.” The future self will say: “Why did you do this to me?” Yet both belong to the same person. This is philosophically fascinating. The present cittam can, in effect, create suffering for its own future cittam. The proverb captures this beautifully. The person who picks up the lizard and the person who later complains are physically the same person—but phenomenologically, they occupy different states of cittam. Attraction → choice → consequence → regret. Where does the third avan come in? I think you are right to bring the third avan here. If the first avan thinks and the second moves toward execution, perhaps the third represents the potential for a wider perspective. The first says: “I want this.” Another says: “Do it.” The third asks: “Have we been here before?” “What happened last time?” “What will happen afterward?” “Is the present charm worth the future consequence?” In other words, the third avan may possess what the other two lack at that moment: temporal breadth. It can connect: past experience + present desire + future consequence. This would give the third avan a much more concrete role within our framework. But why doesn't the third avan always succeed? This is crucial. If the third avan simply prevented all foolish behavior, human beings would rapidly become perfect. Clearly, they do not. Perhaps the third avan is not a controller. It is a potential. This returns to your original interpretation of Tirumūlar 1789. The third Avan is the unrealized potential within the human being. It can become active through: experience, reflection, memory, self-observation, refinement. But its advice can still be ignored. This may be exactly why சித்தம் திரிதல் is lifelong. The proverb also modifies our river analogy Previously we said: The river cannot prevent every fish or crane from appearing. Now the ஓணான் proverb adds: Sometimes cittam itself goes looking for the trouble. That is new. Not every harmful dance enters uninvited. Some are: invited, pursued, nourished, repeated. And often repeated despite previous consequences. This gives us at least three categories: Uninvited dances — anger arising after an insult, an unwanted memory, fear. Invited dances — knowingly entering situations that provide pleasure, excitement, recognition, or gratification despite risk. Habitual dances — repeating the same activity until the pattern becomes difficult to interrupt. This is a useful expansion of our phenomenology. This also brings us back to அறம் Thiruvalluvar's ethical instruction becomes more understandable in this context. அறம் may not merely tell cittam: “Do not experience desire.” It may train cittam to ask: “Do I need to pick up this ஓணான்?” That question occurs before the action. This is important because much of our discussion has focused on what cittam does after anger, jealousy, greed, or conflict arises. The proverb introduces anticipatory refinement. Perhaps சித்தம் திரிதல் has three temporal dimensions: Retrospective refinement: What happened, and why did I do it? Present refinement: What is happening within me now? Prospective refinement: If I follow this dance, where will it lead? I think this is a major addition. A formulation for the book I would put it this way: The Tamil proverb “வேலியில் போகும் ஓணானை எடுத்து மடியில் கட்டிக்கொண்டு, குத்துதே குடையுதே என்றானாம்” reveals a distinctive activity of cittam: the human tendency knowingly to invite a troublesome experience because its immediate attraction temporarily outweighs the remembered or anticipated consequence. Unlike thoughts and emotions that arise uninvited, these dances are actively pursued. The person often possesses sufficient knowledge of the risk, sometimes even from previous experience, yet knowledge alone fails to govern action. Cittam gives greater weight to present charm than to future suffering. சித்தம் திரிதல் therefore requires not merely examining thoughts after they arise, but developing the capacity to connect past experience, present attraction, and future consequence before action occurs. And I think we can now say something even more fundamental about the third avan: The third avan may be the unrealized human capacity to see beyond the thought that currently occupies cittam—to bring past experience and future consequence into the evaluation of the present dance. This may be one of our clearest interpretations yet of why the third avan is a potential rather than simply another actor. The first two can keep repeating the same dances. The third emerges when the human being becomes capable of asking, before picking up the ஓணான்: “I know the charm; I also know the consequence. Must I enter this dance again?”

Yes—I think this gives us a particularly concrete way to understand அவனிவன் ஆமே, provided we present it as our phenomenological interpretation rather than claim that Tirumūlar explicitly meant skilled performance. Consider a pianist, dancer, surgeon, athlete, sculptor, or even an experienced programmer. At the beginning of learning, the two avans appear almost visibly separated. One avan must think: “place the finger here; make this movement; do this next.” The other avan struggles to execute the instruction. Errors occur, attention is strained, and action is slow. Through years of practice, however, perception, memory, intention, and execution become increasingly coordinated. At the moment of expert performance, the performer may no longer consciously issue each instruction. The knowing and the doing appear to become one continuous activity. This gives us a compelling interpretation: அவனும் அவனும் → thought/intention and action/execution அவனை அறிதல் → realization of the fuller potential through refinement and practice அவனிவன் ஆமே → the distinction between knower and doer becomes functionally invisible in accomplished action. I would not say that the two avans literally disappear. Rather, their conflict and distance disappear. This is important because we have repeatedly discussed situations where the two avans are separated. I know I should do something, but I do not do it. I know the consequence, but I pick up the ōṇāṉ anyway. I want to concentrate on an article, but another thought occupies cittam. I know anger is harmful, but anger directs action. In all these situations there is a distance between knowing, intending, and doing. Expertise shows us the opposite condition. A musician knows and performs simultaneously. A skilled surgeon sees, judges, and acts with extraordinary coordination. A fluent speaker does not consciously assemble grammar before every sentence. An experienced scholar reads a verse and perceives connections that a beginner must laboriously search for. Perhaps, then, the third Avan is not simply another entity hidden somewhere inside the person. It is the potential state of integration toward which the two avans can develop. This would modify our earlier model in an important way. We had sometimes treated the third avan as an observer who stands above the other two and corrects them. I now think that may be too static. Perhaps the third Avan is better understood as realized integration. The progression would be: Division → attention → repetition → refinement → coordination → integration. And this connects directly with சித்தம் திரிதல். Refinement is not only about controlling anger, jealousy, greed, or harmful thoughts. It is also the process through which human capacities become increasingly coordinated. The child learning music, the student becoming a physician, the apprentice becoming an expert—all undergo a long refinement of cittam, brain, body, memory, perception, and action. This also helps us connect our philosophy with the brain without reducing cittam to neurons. Repeated practice changes neural organization; memory is strengthened; actions become increasingly automatic. Science can study those mechanisms. Our phenomenology asks a different question: what is it like when the distance between intending and doing gradually disappears? The answer may be visible in expert performance. There is another fascinating consequence. Earlier we spoke of the long invisible dances whose antam appears only after years. Acquiring expertise is perhaps one of the clearest examples. Thousands of invisible dances occur: failure → correction → repetition → memory → attention → frustration → renewed effort → refinement. Then, one day, an audience sees only the final flawless performance. They see the antam. They do not see the thousands of dances that produced it. So I think we can formulate the idea strongly: In ordinary human experience, the two avans are frequently divided: one knows while the other fails to act, one intends while the other hesitates, or one desires while the other resists. Through sustained attention, experience, repetition, and refinement, this distance may gradually diminish. In moments of accomplished performance, knowing and doing become so fully coordinated that they appear as a single activity. Such moments offer a phenomenological reading of Tirumūlar's அவனிவன் ஆமே: the hidden potential is realized when the divided capacities of the human being become integrated in action. But I would add one further thought. This may help us distinguish தெளிந்தார் from சிவமயம் more precisely. A person can achieve avan-ivan integration in one domain and remain completely unrefined elsewhere. A brilliant musician may be consumed by jealousy. A great scientist may have terrible interpersonal relationships. A skilled surgeon may be dominated by anger. Thus, expertise represents a local merger of the avans, restricted to a particular dance. Tirumūlar's அவனிவன் ஆமே, in the larger sense we are developing, may point toward something much broader: not merely flawless performance in one activity, but the progressive integration of the whole person. That gives us a very useful distinction: Talent is the refinement and integration of the avans within a particular dance. தெளிவு is the growing capacity to recognize and coordinate the many dances of one's life. சிவமயம் is Tirumūlar's ultimate vision of complete integration, where the divisions themselves no longer govern the person. I think this is a major development in our interpretation of verse 1789. Until now, we mostly used the three avans to explain conflict within human consciousness. Expertise allows us, for the first time, to observe what the merger of the avans might actually look like in ordinary human life.