Again and again, videos on Carl Jung emphasize one central point: I, me, mine—individuation, personal space, peace, time, and boundaries. I respect this. I accept it as a path shaped by Western individualism. Jung, after all, spoke not only of the self but of integration and the shadow, of coming into wholeness. Yet his legacy in popular culture often reduces individuation to a solitary journey—cut off from the collective, and from others.
In India, the narrative unfolds differently.
Time and again, this pursuit of individuation risks becoming a trap we unknowingly set for ourselves. A Tamil proverb puts it sharply: “Sondha kaasile soonyam vachu karadhu”—[சொந்த காசுல சூனியம் வச்சுக்கிறது] casting black magic on oneself with one’s own money. That is, causing harm using one’s own resources. Without the presence of another—someone to mirror us, challenge us, or simply be with us—even the idea of I, me, and mine begins to unravel.
Let me share a story that is commonly told in India, though variations of it may exist elsewhere too.
There was once a wealthy and powerful man in a village. Out of self-respect, pride, or what some might now call individuation—his “space,” his “mine,” his “me”—he rarely visited others or took part in community events, even when invited personally. Whenever someone asked him to come, he would reply, “I’m very busy,” or “I have more important things to do.” These were not just excuses—they were expressions of ego, or aham, as we call it in India. Instead of going himself, he would send his walking stick with a servant to represent him.
One day, the man fell seriously ill and became bedridden. Though his family and servants took care of him, not a single villager came to visit.
When he eventually died, a message was sent to the villagers inviting them to the funeral. Each of them sent their own walking sticks in return, along with a message: they were too busy, had more important things to do, and couldn’t attend. And so, instead of a crowd gathered in mourning, a cluster of walking sticks stood silently in his place.
This scene reminds me of a short yet striking message I came across recently on social media. A man, too busy to meet his close friend in person, sent his wedding invitation via WhatsApp with a polite note: “Sorry, I’m unable to invite you personally. Please accept this as a personal invitation.” On the wedding day, the friend responded with a message of his own: “Sorry, I’m too busy to attend your wedding. Please accept this money as my personal gift.” He attached a photo of a bundle of ₹500 notes along with his best wishes.
The message, while humorous, holds a mirror to our culture. In the name of convenience and efficiency, we slowly trade away presence, touch, and time—the very things that give meaning to relationships. No wonder old Indian sayings like “கனவில் கண்ட காசு போல“ (like the money seen in a dream) still echo with truth: relationships handled without sincerity, like dream-money, leave no real value behind.
I do not wish to offer a conclusion or moral. The story speaks for itself—revealing what individuation can become when stretched beyond its human limits.
In the name of setting boundaries, avoiding toxic relationships, choosing solitude, or even seeking new hobbies, jobs, and healthier friendships—we often forget the quiet truth: individuation, when overextended, can isolate the very self it seeks to protect.
I say this not as a critic of solitude, but as someone who lives almost entirely alone. I reside in my ashram, with no one else, spending nearly 22 hours a day in silence. I understand what individuation means. I am practicing it—not to avoid others, but because silence is part of my sadhana. It is not a shield against the world, but a conscious turning inward.
Many mistake solitude and silence for avoidance or a coping mechanism. But they can also be chosen, cultivated, even celebrated—not as reactions to external noise, but as disciplines of inner clarity. True healing may not lie in drawing sharper lines around the self, but in remembering the subtle ties that connect us to others—even in silence.
The walking stick, once a symbol of pride, stood alone in the end—an echo of all that was left unsaid between the self and the other.
Ashram, July 10, 2025
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