It begins with a chant.
Not just sound, not just tradition. But an invitation. A threshold you cross at the start and end of every class, with folded hands, a straight spine, and a quiet mind. Swami Advayātmananda reminds us: you’re not a church mouse—chant like you mean it. Let Bhagavān hear you. Let yourself hear you.
So we chant. We sit taller. And we enter the teaching.
This was Class 1 of 7 on the Hastāmalakīyam, a text composed by a young boy named Hastāmalaka—one of the four primary disciples of Ādi Śaṅkarācārya. His name literally means “the fruit resting on the palm of the hand,” symbolizing the clarity with which he saw the truth of the Self. Not as theory. As reality.
The story goes that Śaṅkarācārya once met a boy who appeared unresponsive to his surroundings. He asked him: “Who are you? Who is your father? Where do you come from?” But the boy didn’t reply—not out of ignorance, but out of deep absorption. Finally, when he did speak, it wasn’t with mundane facts—it was with a declaration of truth:
“I am not a man, nor a god, nor any being you can name. I am pure Awareness, untouched, unborn, limitless.”
And just like that, the stage was set—not only for a powerful teaching, but for a shift in perspective so profound that it has echoed through centuries.
Swami Advayātmananda used this moment to explore the very heart of Vedānta: the correction of a fundamental error. We assume we are this body, this mind, this story. But that assumption, left unexamined, becomes the root of all suffering (saṁsāra).
This text—Hastāmalakīyam—isn’t a philosophical treatise. It’s a spontaneous outpouring of direct realization. It’s composed in clear Sanskrit verses and opens up the entire vision of the Upaniṣads in just twelve ślokas. Each line is like a mirror, showing us the Self not as something to be attained, but as something already present, already full.
But to recognize it, something has to be undone. Not the Self, but the false notions around it.
That’s where chanting, meter, and even pronunciation matter. Vedic Sanskrit uses tonal markers—lines above or below letters—to guide the proper intonation. There’s Vedic Sanskrit (used in the mantras of the Vedas) and classical Sanskrit (like that of the Gītā). Vedic mantras are not meant to be freely sung—they carry a precision that preserves their power. “It’s considered improper,” Swamiji notes, “to just make up your own melody.”
Even the meter—the rhythm of the ślokas—is part of the transmission. One meter discussed was Indra Vajra, a rhythmic structure of 11 syllables per line, named after Indra’s thunderbolt. Sanskrit meters are exact, patterned like the ragas of Indian music, and chanted like the beats of tabla and mṛdaṅgam. Precision matters because sound is a carrier of meaning—but also, of presence.
From there, the class turned to the vision of mokṣa—freedom. Not the freedom to do whatever we want, but the freedom from the idea that we are lacking, bound, or broken.
Swamiji explained that the śāstra (scripture) says we are already free. The problem isn’t in what we are—but in what we take ourselves to be. Saṁsāra, then, is not out there—it’s a mistaken notion. And the only real solution is self-knowledge.
But how does one get there?
By developing viveka (discernment), vairāgya (objectivity), and mumukṣutva (a burning desire for freedom). These aren’t qualities we manufacture. They often come from struggle. From seeking. From chasing after things that eventually fall short. “The world,” Swamiji says, “is constantly telling us who we are and how to be happy. And it’s often wrong.”
He offers the image of a child’s toy—blocks that fit into shaped holes. We spend our lives trying to fill the hole in our heart with the right shape: relationships, careers, possessions, even spiritual experiences. But they never really fit. Even if they do, they fall through. And the hole remains.
Vedānta says: the hole is an illusion. You were never broken. You were never missing anything.
This realization, however, isn’t a casual insight. It takes guidance. The Mundaka Upaniṣad says the seeker must approach a teacher (guru) who is both śrotriya (well-versed in the scriptures) and bramaniṣṭha (firmly established in the truth). This teacher leads the student from their current understanding to the vision that there is only one reality—and that reality is you.
And yet, in a beautiful twist, the Hastāmalakīyam reverses the typical teacher-student dynamic. Śaṅkarācārya doesn’t teach Hastāmalaka. The boy teaches him. So moved was Śaṅkarācārya that he wrote a commentary on his own disciple’s verses—an extraordinary moment in the tradition.
Swamiji also spoke about the stages of life (āśramas)—student, householder, forest-dweller, renunciate—and the roles people take in society (varṇas). Hastāmalaka disidentifies from all of them. “I’m not a Brahmin. I’m not a warrior. I’m not a student, nor a renunciate. I am awareness.” His words dismantle identity layer by layer until nothing remains but truth.
This is not escapism. It is clarity.
With that clarity comes ahiṁsā (non-injury), not just toward others but toward oneself. We often carry an inner critic—a voice that judges, condemns, never relents. Swamiji invites us to turn ahiṁsā inward. Be kind to yourself. Be compassionate with your own imperfections. Accept that you are a work in progress—but that your essence is already perfect.
Ultimately, this class was not about learning a text. It was about learning to see.
“To truly know ‘I am Brahman’,” Swamiji said, “you must first know who you are.” And that takes more than chanting verses. It takes a willingness to see through the stories, drop the labels, and meet the Self directly—as clearly as a fruit resting on your own palm.
As the class closed, we returned to the chant. No longer a formality, but a full-circle reminder of the teaching:
Om śāntiḥ śāntiḥ śāntiḥ
Peace. Peace. Peace.
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Based on Class 1 of 7 on the Hastāmalakīyam with Swami Advayātmananda.
Adapted and humanized for clarity, accessibility, and reflection. Teachings are rooted in the Advaita Vedānta tradition of Ādi Śaṅkarācārya and Pujya Swami Dayananda Saraswati.
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