HOW TO REACH THE NATURAL STATE
- Madhukar Dama
- May 29
- 7 min read
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PROLOGUE
You have never seen the real you.
Everything you call “me” is a second-hand residue — a mix of what your parents believed, what your teachers praised, what your peers feared, what your religion glorified, and what your nation demanded.
You’ve never had an original emotion.
You’ve never thought a single new thought.
You’ve never acted from a place untouched by memory.
And yet, you call this existence life.
You call it freedom.
You call it yourself.
But all this is just the content of mankind.
If you want to touch your natural state — the living, breathing, primal clarity you were born with — then that entire content must die.
Not partially.
Not politely.
Completely.
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WHAT IS THE “CONTENT OF MANKIND”?
It is the accumulated baggage of 100,000 years.
It is:
Every thought man ever had about right and wrong
Every emotion repeated generation after generation
Every system: religion, economy, politics, therapy
Every ambition, fear, pride, guilt, and love story
Every “meaning” you attach to suffering, success, and self
This content is not just in books.
It lives in your bones.
It controls your instincts.
It wears your face and speaks with your voice.
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YOUR LIFE IS A COPY OF A COPY
You don’t choose your beliefs — they were installed.
You don’t love freely — you love based on trauma and conditioning.
You don’t even desire anything original — your dreams are borrowed from advertisements, movies, and social comparison.
You were trained to react.
Trained to obey.
Trained to pretend you're unique while being completely predictable.
The saddest part?
You think you're thinking.
But you're just replaying.
Your entire life is an algorithm inherited from dead people.
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WHY NOTHING NEW CAN ARISE UNTIL THIS DIES
The human mind is a storage device.
Not a source of life.
As long as you're operating from stored experience, you’re only recycling.
And no matter how spiritual or intellectual your content is —
— it is still content.
Truth doesn’t need content.
Life doesn’t need memory.
The natural state is not a conclusion — it is prior to thought.
But to touch it, all that came after birth must end.
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WHAT DYING TO THE CONTENT LOOKS LIKE
It’s not about silence.
It’s not about becoming calm.
It’s about:
Losing interest in your thoughts, even the brilliant ones
Seeing emotions as weather — not identity
Giving up all efforts to “heal,” “improve,” or “become”
Being no one, nowhere, for no reason
It is a form of mental death.
But without depression.
A form of awakening — but without the need for a witness.
It feels like nothing.
And then — life begins.
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YOU DON’T NEED THERAPY, TEACHERS, OR GURUS
All you need is to see the trap.
Every attempt to fix yourself adds more content.
Every book you read, every belief you pick, every emotion you process —
— is just further entanglement.
You cannot escape the cage by decorating it.
To leave it, you must refuse the entire inheritance of mankind.
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THE HORROR AND FREEDOM OF LETTING GO
Why is it horrifying?
Because without this content:
You have no identity
No social face
No meaning to your memories
No control over tomorrow
But that is exactly what freedom is.
It’s not safety.
It’s not peace.
It’s not love.
It is not being owned by the past.
When that happens, even if you are poor, sick, or dying —
— you are still free.
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CONCLUSION: WHAT REMAINS?
When you are not driven by thought…
When you are not ruled by emotion…
When you are not loyal to experience…
What remains?
Not silence. Not stillness. Not bliss.
Just life — raw, spontaneous, innocent.
A life that doesn’t come from memory.
A self that doesn’t carry yesterday.
This is your natural state.
And you will never touch it until everything you ever were dies.
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SUMMARY QUOTE
> “You are not you. You are everything mankind has ever been. To be free, you must end.”
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TITLE:
WHEN THE CONTENT OF MANKIND DIES — A DIALOGUE ON FINDING YOUR NATURAL STATE
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Characters:
Madhukar — a 43-year-old former scientist, now a hermit living simply in the forests of Karnataka.
Ravi — a 38-year-old corporate trainer who has read hundreds of books on healing, therapy, and spirituality but still feels empty.
Anita — a 32-year-old psychologist struggling with anxiety, despite knowing all the theories.
Bhaskar — a retired literature professor and lifelong seeker of truth through philosophy and religion.
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[Scene: The verandah of Madhukar's mud home, two kilometers into the forest. The group sits barefoot on a cool stone floor, the forest breathing quietly around them.]
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PART 1: THE SEEKER’S BURDEN
Ravi:
I’ve tried everything — therapy, meditation, yoga, affirmations. I feel better for a while. Then the same emptiness returns. Why?
Madhukar:
Because everything you’ve tried is part of the problem.
You’re rearranging the furniture inside the prison.
You’ve never questioned the prison itself.
Anita:
Are you saying therapy, healing, even emotional awareness… are wrong?
Madhukar:
They are not wrong.
They are just content — part of the same human attempt to fix, label, and continue.
And content is the cage.
Bhaskar:
But we can’t just erase thought, emotion, and experience. That’s our entire life!
Madhukar:
Exactly. That’s the tragedy.
You call the wound your face.
You call the infection your truth.
You’re terrified of the void — so you decorate the disease.
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PART 2: THE REALIZATION
Ravi:
So what is the real disease?
Madhukar:
The totality of human inheritance.
Everything mankind has ever felt, feared, desired, believed, built — is running inside you.
You are not an individual.
You are all of mankind wearing a name tag.
Anita:
So my anxiety… is not mine?
Madhukar:
No.
It is a recycled emotion.
Passed through wombs, religions, schools, advertisements, news channels, and institutions.
You’re just the latest broadcasting device.
Bhaskar:
But surely, some part of us is untouched? Pure?
Madhukar:
Yes — but it cannot be found by adding.
Only by ending.
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PART 3: DEATH OF THE KNOWN
Ravi:
Ending what, exactly?
Madhukar:
Everything you’ve ever called “you.”
Your thoughts? Not yours.
Your emotions? Inherited.
Your beliefs? Implanted.
Your memories? Repetitive.
Your goals? Marketed.
To find your natural state, the entire content of mankind must die in you.
Anita:
But I’ve spent years building myself up.
My healing journey… my growth… it was so painful.
Madhukar:
Yes.
Painful because you were trying to grow the ego into God.
But God cannot grow.
Truth cannot evolve.
It can only be revealed when everything false dies.
Bhaskar:
What happens when all this ends?
Madhukar:
Nothing.
And in that nothing — there is life.
Not emotion.
Not meaning.
Not pleasure.
Just raw, wild, free presence.
A state that has no name, no agenda, and no owner.
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PART 4: THE DEATH THAT LIBERATES
Ravi:
So this is a kind of death?
Madhukar:
Yes.
Mental death.
Emotional death.
Conceptual death.
The death of continuity.
Anita:
How will I function? How will I care for my child, earn a living?
Madhukar:
Beautifully.
Not as a slave of memory.
But as a being responding to the truth of each moment.
No script. No borrowed love. No performance.
Bhaskar:
This sounds terrifying.
Madhukar:
Because you’ve spent your whole life defending illusions.
And now, I’m asking you to bury them without ceremony.
But I promise you this:
Once they die — you will never want them back.
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EPILOGUE: THE RETURN TO LIFE
Ravi (quietly):
Then… who am I?
Madhukar (smiling):
Whoever you were before mankind named you.
That one has no past.
And that one cannot be destroyed.
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BURY THE BASTARD — A POEM ON THE DEATH OF MAN’S CONTENT
(In the raw dirt of Indian truth)
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they told you to pray
to gods who never lived,
in temples your ancestors
were too wild to enter.
they told you to obey your father
because he fed you,
even when he was drunk on
his own broken fatherhood.
they told you to become somebody —
IAS, IPS, MBA, MD,
a bloody pile of alphabets
stacked like bricks over your childhood.
they said this is your culture,
but it was just a second-hand disease,
a varnished fear,
wrapped in festivals and shame.
you were born whole,
but they cut you into sections:
good girl, obedient boy,
brahmin, kannadiga, Hindu,
upper middle class,
CBSE,
clean English.
and now you think you are free
because you shop on Amazon
and chant mantras on Instagram.
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you are just the storage drive
of 10,000 years of crap.
you think you love your child?
you only love your idea of her.
you think you love your country?
you’ve never left your caste.
you think you know yourself?
you are a borrowed man in a rented body.
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every thought is a stain
left by other people’s fear.
every emotion is an echo
you mistake for a song.
even your healing journey is
just another cycle
in the great Indian washing machine
of family trauma and holy detachment.
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you meditate now.
congratulations.
but who gave you that desire?
Osho? Ramana?
YouTube?
your silence is as loud
as your screaming childhood.
your peace is just anxiety
wearing white.
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you haven’t felt anything real
since you were 3
and cried without checking
who was watching.
you haven’t had a new thought
since class 1
when they beat it out of you
with red ink and fear of failing.
you haven’t lived
you’ve been acting
in a low-budget mythological serial
called “ME.”
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bury him.
that bastard.
the man made of quotes, degrees,
trauma, patriotism,
fake love,
imported gender roles,
and 7-lakh Instagram followers.
burn his resume.
flush his philosophies.
stab his ambition
with a kitchen knife
sharpened on
real hunger.
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and what will be left?
nothing.
thank god.
nothing.
and from that beautiful, wild,
untouched void
life will crawl out —
naked, ugly, alive.
and you’ll cry,
not because you're healed
but because
you were never broken — just borrowed.
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in the end, the real you
was never yours.
it was too free to be owned.
too ancient to be inherited.
and too wild
to survive inside the content
of mankind.
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