There’s a scene at the very end of Evangelion — Shinji, after all the collapse and violence, suddenly finds himself surrounded by every figure in his life. Those who loved him, those who abandoned him, and even those who humiliated him. And instead of repeating the old drama, they all turn to him and say one thing:
“Congratulations.”
When I first watched it, I couldn’t really understand. It felt strange, almost absurd. Why would tormentors and friends alike speak in one voice of affirmation? Why would the very people who had scarred him now stand as part of his release?
At that time, it felt more like a riddle than a revelation.
The Dream as Shmashan Moment
Only recently, I had a dream that echoed this same strange logic.
It wasn’t a gentle dream. The figure who appeared was not a friend or guide — but the one who, in childhood, had inflicted some of the deepest scars. Someone who had left behind a trail of humiliation that haunted me for decades in nightmares. A face that for years symbolized fear, weakness, and cruelty.
And yet, in this dream, the impossible happened.
Instead of torment, that figure began to speak the words of Ramana Maharshi. Not vague spiritualities, but directly quoting Ulladu Narpadu — the text of uncompromising Self-enquiry.
The same mouth that once delivered wounding words was now carrying the teaching of liberation.
I woke with a sense of strangeness I cannot fully describe. The dream didn’t erase the history, nor did it sanctify the cruelty of the past. But for the first time, after long years of recurring nightmares, something turned. The tormentor’s voice had become the voice of truth.
Interpretation — When the Enemy Speaks Scripture
What does it mean when the tormentor’s voice turns into the mouth of a sage?
Psychological Layer
On one level, the dream reveals a shift in the psyche. For years, that figure was frozen in memory as the face of humiliation. The nightmares repeated the wound again and again. But in this dream, something different happened: the same figure carried not poison, but medicine. It’s as though the mind itself is learning to rewrite the imprint — to turn the image of trauma into a vessel of healing.
Archetypal Layer
From a deeper, mythic view, this is the shmashan at work. The cremation ground doesn’t only burn the obvious corpses. It burns even the ghosts of the past. And sometimes, in the heat of that fire, those ghosts themselves begin to chant before they vanish. The dream felt like that: the old abuser transformed, at least for a moment, into a strange mouthpiece of truth — before dissolving back into silence.
Spiritual Layer
On the spiritual plane, this is the paradox Devi often reveals in the fiercest part of the journey: that nothing is outside Her play. That even the darkest figures in one’s life, once burned enough, can become channels for awakening. Not because their actions were justified — cruelty is never sanctified — but because consciousness can reclaim even the most painful masks and turn them toward freedom.
Closing Reflection
When I first watched the Evangelion ending, I could not make sense of it.
The characters who loved Shinji, and those who hurt him the most, all stood together in one voice. The friend and the bully, the parent and the stranger, those who betrayed and those who tried to protect — each one simply said:
“Congratulations.”
It felt absurd at the time, almost mocking. I couldn’t see why a tormentor’s voice would be part of the chorus.
But now, after this dream, I begin to understand — not fully, but enough to feel its tremor in my bones.
For decades, I carried the echo of cruelty. It returned again and again, in sleep and in waking memory, like a wound that would not close. And then, suddenly, that very voice — the same voice that had once carved humiliation into me — spoke Ramana’s words. The scripture of truth, the pointer back to the Self.
It did not undo the past. It did not justify the cruelty. Nothing erases what was done.
But in that moment, the impossible happened: the ghost of the tormentor carried the current of freedom.
This is the nature of the shmashan.
It is not clean, not polite. It burns everything.
Even the abuser, even the betrayer, even the corpses of memory that we thought would haunt us forever.
And sometimes, before the flames consume them, those corpses sing.
That is what I felt: the dark figure chanting scripture before dissolving into ash.
And so I return to Evangelion’s strange chorus.
It is not that the abuser becomes pure, nor that the friend becomes more.
It is that all masks — friend and foe, lover and enemy — are swallowed into the same sky.
Their separate roles collapse. What remains is a strange, tender affirmation:
“You are still here. You are still alive. And that is enough.”
Perhaps this is what Ramana meant when he pointed beyond identities. The “I” who was humiliated, the “I” who triumphed, the “I” who carried trauma — none of them are real in themselves. They are passing masks in the great play. And even those masks, when the time is ripe, can speak liberation before they fall away.
I cannot claim that the process is over. It is not. The shmashan is still burning.
Hooks still rise from the ashes; old voices still try to make themselves heard.
But something has shifted.
Because now I know: even the cruelest voice in memory can, at the right moment, become a mouthpiece of truth.
And when that happens, it is as if the chorus from Evangelion enters the heart:
all the voices — kind and cruel, supportive and shattering — stand together, not to wound or to praise, but to point beyond themselves.
To the silence that was always here.
To the Self that was never touched.
And in that silence, even the enemy can whisper:
“Congratulations.
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