We all say it at some point. “Kashtam… kashtathukku mela kashtam… why so much?” It comes out of frustration more than philosophy. I once heard this simple story that Mahaperiyava used to enjoy, and it stayed with me because of how ordinary it was. Milk complains first. “I was safe inside the cow, undisturbed. Suddenly I am pulled out, poured into a vessel, and placed over fire. I boil, I tremble, I rise. Why this test?” It cools down, thinking the worst is over. Then sour curd is mixed into it and it thickens into curd. That too doesn’t last. It is churned and churned until butter separates. Even that butter is not spared. It is melted again, slowly, over heat, until it becomes ghee. Imagine what it must feel like to change form again and again without choosing it.

Finally the ghee sits quietly in a jar near a window. Two women outside talk about prices. Milk is cheap. Ghee is costly. Sitting there, the ghee realizes something without anyone lecturing it. The very stages it resented the boiling, the mixing, the churning, the melting are what made its value different.

When I think about it, I don’t see this as some grand moral story. It feels close to daily life. We prefer to remain as we are familiar, comfortable, unchanged. But life does not usually leave us untouched. It heats us, mixes us with people and situations we did not choose, churns us until something within separates, melts us again. At that time, it simply feels unfair. Only later do we notice that we are not who we were.

Milk did not become ghee in one smooth moment. It passed through stages that each felt unnecessary while they were happening. Maybe some of the “kashtam” we complain about are also stages we cannot see fully yet.

Agre Pashyami 🌿