Bondage is of the mind; freedom too is of the mind. If you say 'I

Host: The temple courtyard was soaked in moonlight, every stone glowing with a quiet silver fire. The air was still, heavy with incense and the distant hum of chanting from the inner shrine. The river beyond murmured softly against its banks, carrying fragments of prayers downstream — words lost, faith remembered.

Under the banyan tree, Jack sat cross-legged, his back straight but his spirit unsettled. His eyes, grey and restless, stared into the small flame flickering before him. Across from him, Jeeny sat in silence, her hands folded loosely in her lap, her hair lifted gently by the night breeze.

Host: Between them lay a thin veil of tension — the kind that only arises when the body is still but the soul is aflame.

Jeeny: “Ramakrishna once said, ‘Bondage is of the mind; freedom too is of the mind. If you say "I am a free soul. I am a son of God, who can bind me?" — free you shall be.’”
Her voice trembled slightly — not from uncertainty, but from reverence. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That the greatest chains we fight are invisible.”

Jack: He gave a small, bitter smile, eyes never leaving the flame. “Invisible chains are the hardest to break. Because they’re not made of iron — they’re made of belief. You can’t smash an idea with a hammer.”

Jeeny: “But you can unmake it with another idea,” she said softly. “That’s what he meant. Freedom isn’t something given — it’s realized.”

Host: A gust of wind passed through the courtyard, scattering leaves like quiet applause. The flame flickered wildly, but did not die.

Jack: “You talk like freedom is a thought experiment,” he said. “But tell that to someone trapped by circumstance. Tell it to the poor, the oppressed, the grieving. You think they can just think themselves free?”

Jeeny: “And yet some have,” she replied. “Viktor Frankl found freedom in a concentration camp. Mandela found it in a cell. Ramakrishna wasn’t talking about comfort — he was talking about consciousness.”

Host: Her words landed between them like a pebble in still water, rippling through Jack’s guarded silence. He looked up at her now, a flicker of resistance softening into curiosity.

Jack: “So what then?” he asked. “If freedom is just in the mind, are we supposed to ignore the world? Pretend suffering doesn’t matter?”

Jeeny: “Not ignore it,” she said. “Transcend it. The mind can make a prison of paradise or a sanctuary of pain. It decides how real the walls are.”

Jack: “That sounds like denial,” he said sharply. “You’re telling people to reframe their pain instead of fixing what causes it.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her eyes fierce now. “I’m saying fix what you can — but don’t let your mind chain you while you fight. The outer battle is never truly won unless the inner one is.”

Host: The flame swayed again, bending toward her as though drawn by her conviction. The light danced across Jack’s face, revealing both defiance and something more fragile — the ache of understanding he didn’t want to accept.

Jack: “So you think I’m chained?” he asked quietly.

Jeeny: “I think you believe you are,” she said gently. “You wear doubt like armor, Jack. But every armor becomes a cage if you never take it off.”

Host: The words stung, but they didn’t wound. Instead, they opened something in him — a crack, a breath, a question.

Jack: “You talk about the mind as if it’s God,” he murmured. “But what if the mind is the prison itself?”

Jeeny: “Then consciousness is the key,” she replied. “Ramakrishna wasn’t saying the mind saves us — he was saying awareness does. The moment you realize your identity is not your fear, not your pain, not your failure — you’re free.”

Host: The river’s song deepened, and from the temple came the faint sound of a bell — slow, solemn, infinite. The sound moved through the courtyard like time itself exhaling.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple,” he said. “But the mind isn’t a door you can just walk through. It’s a labyrinth — every thought a hallway, every memory a trap.”

Jeeny: “Then stop running,” she whispered. “The only way out of a labyrinth is to stand still. To see that the walls were always made of thought, not stone.”

Host: Silence again. The flame burned steady now, as if the wind itself had surrendered to her calm. Jack looked into it, his reflection flickering — solid, then dissolving, then solid again.

Jack: “You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve spent most of my life chasing the idea of control — over work, over people, over fate. But lately, everything I try to hold slips through my hands. Maybe that’s the real prison — thinking control is freedom.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “Because control is fear in disguise. True freedom is not mastery — it’s surrender.”

Host: Her words fell like rain on dry earth. The sound of the river swelled again, mingling with the whispers of the night. Jack sat still, eyes closed, breathing deeply, as if testing the shape of her truth.

Jack: “So if I say, ‘I am free,’ it becomes true?” he asked, his tone somewhere between skepticism and wonder.

Jeeny: “If you believe it, yes,” she said. “Because belief creates perception, and perception becomes reality. Ramakrishna didn’t mean arrogance — he meant remembrance. To remember who you are beneath fear — that’s liberation.”

Host: A long pause. Then — a faint smile crossed Jack’s face, one that seemed both fragile and fierce.

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been bowing to the wrong gods,” he said. “Fear. Doubt. Regret. Maybe they’re idols I built myself.”

Jeeny: “We all build them,” she said. “But the moment we see them for what they are — shadows on the wall — they vanish.”

Host: A stray leaf drifted from the banyan tree and landed in the flame. It burned instantly — a brief flare, then nothing. Jeeny watched it dissolve. Jack followed her gaze.

Jack: “So freedom isn’t about escape,” he said softly. “It’s about awakening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said, smiling. “You don’t run from the darkness. You realize you were never inside it.”

Host: The night air grew still again. The temple bells stopped. Only the river continued — endless, patient, free.

Jack stood, brushing the dust from his jeans, looking lighter somehow, though nothing visible had changed.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny,” he said, glancing toward the horizon where the first light of dawn pressed against the dark, “for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel trapped.”

Jeeny: “Then the mind has already opened its door,” she said softly.

Host: The sun broke — a quiet explosion of gold spreading through the mist. The banyan leaves glimmered like new truths. The small flame in front of them died, but the light did not fade.

Host: As they walked toward the river, their footsteps slow and sure, the world seemed vast yet weightless — as if something unseen had shifted.

Host: And in that rising dawn, Ramakrishna’s words lived — not as philosophy, but as revelation:
that bondage and freedom are both born in the mind,
that to declare “I am free” is to remember the truth already within,
and that the soul, once awakened, cannot be bound —
because it was never bound at all.