The Yogi Does Not Throw Seeds Into Salt

The Yogi Does Not Throw Seeds Into Salt
(Kindness, Shadow, and the Wounded Redeemer)

Bijoy Krishna Goswami: “The sign of having witnessed a tattwa will be manifested in the character. That person will not slander others even at the cost of his own life; will consider self-praise equivalent to poison. He will be kind to trees, creepers, insects, beasts and birds, humans and all living beings. One who does not have any kindness towards living beings, one who slanders, and one who praises oneself, is not a tattwajnani…

Yet kindness must be analyzed. Show kindness only to the extent of your limitation and duty. Many great sadhus have been ruined by unlimited kindness.”

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Vira Chandra: This is not merely a moral teaching. It is a map drawn from the wreckage of radiant souls — those who mistook self-erasure for spiritual strength,and called it compassion.

The Violence of Unmeasured Goodness

Yes, kindness is sacred.

But unmeasured kindness—kindness without analysis—is not sattva.

It is ego clothed in white.

It is the leakage of prāṇa from an identity built on goodness.

It is the silent cry of a soul that has not yet dared to say: “No.”

“When Love seizes the soul, she takes leave of virtues just as she did of vice.” — Marguerite Porete

We fall, not because we are wicked.

We fall because we cling to being good.

The more we identify with virtue,

the more terrified we become of our own darkness.

And what we cannot own in ourselves,

we project onto others—or feed through endless self-sacrifice.

Jung’s Diagnosis: The Inflated Persona and Disowned Shadow

In Jungian terms, this is the mechanism of the inflated persona and the repressed shadow.

The persona is the mask the ego wears—how we wish to be seen.

When we identify with being the Good One, the Redeemer, the Helper, our entire self-worth becomes fused with kindness.

We cannot stop giving—

not because we are free,

but because we are afraid.

Afraid of being called selfish.

Afraid of becoming the one who refuses.

Afraid of the buried anger, judgment, power, or clarity locked in the unconscious.

So we keep giving.

Not from Self—but from survival.

Not from freedom—but from the fear of falling from grace.

This is not compassion.

It is a defense mechanism.

The psychic equivalent of a hostage negotiation with the unconscious:

“If I keep being good, maybe my darkness won’t consume me.”

But it will.

Because what is repressed does not vanish.

It returns—as fate.

The Wounded Redeemer

The more we deny our inner predator,

the more we attract outer parasites.

The more we disown our inner rage,

the more we become magnets for abuse.

The more we cannot say “No” from strength,

the more our “Yes” becomes meaningless.

Thus is born the archetype of the Wounded Redeemer:

A noble soul.

A loving heart.

And an unconscious belief that to redeem others is to redeem oneself.

That Love will heal the abuser.

That giving will awaken the dead.

That suffering silently is proof of spiritual depth.

This person is used, drained, discarded—

not because they are unworthy,

but because they have confused sainthood with self-abandonment.

They mistake pathological endurance for compassion.

They mistake martyrdom for yoga.

They mistake clinging to virtue for surrender to Truth.

The Dharma of Fangs

“Even saints are pleased when scorpions are killed.” — Bhāgavatam 7.9.14

Prahlāda, the boy-saint, speaks these words to Viṣṇu: 

Not in cruelty, but in praise of divine justice— 

acknowledging that Dharma sometimes wears fangs.

Even the compassionate know:

To feed the rabid dog is not kindness.

To shield the serpent while it strikes is not sattva.

To allow oneself to be drained by the irredeemable is not Dharma—it is delusion.

There is no virtue in offering your light to those who devour it and curse the sun.

True wisdom lies in discerning the soil from the salt.

Ramana’s Silence: The Supreme Offense of Clarity

No act could seem less kind in Hindu culture than showing indifference to one’s mother.

The mother is sacred. Her tears are said to move the gods. Her wish is law.

So imagine the scene:

Ramana Maharshi, barely a teenager, has fled to Arunachala.

His mother tracks him down—desperate, trembling, weeping.

She begs him to return home. To speak. To acknowledge her.

He does not speak.

He does not comfort.

He does not even look at her.

For days, he remains silent, unmoving, like a corpse with a pulse.

It was a response more brutal than words could be—and more compassionate than words could contain.

Not hatred.

Not coldness.

But an act of flawless clarity—one that defied all sentiment and social duty.

This silence shattered her.

And it transformed her.

Eventually, she stayed.

She took to spiritual life.

She died at his feet—and was absorbed in the path that began with his refusal.

This was not unkindness.

It was the fire of truth refusing to coddle illusion.

It was the highest compassion, wearing the face of merciless detachment.

The Self Gives Like the Sun

The Self gives—
but not from identity.
Not to feel holy.
Not to outrun its own shadow.

The Self gives like the sun:
shining on all, but nourishing where there is soil.
It does not withdraw its light—
but it knows where growth is possible.

It does not bleed, or beg, or barter.
It does not fear rejection.
It does not keep score.

It gives because giving is its nature—
yet it sees clearly
what blossoms,
what burns,
and what simply reflects without absorbing.

True kindness is not how much you give.
It is how clearly you see what your giving becomes.

It arises from wholeness—not from lack.
From the union of clarity and compassion—not the denial of either.
And it ends, not in martyrdom,
but in radiant stillness.