The Bhagavad Gita in Synthesis: An Answer Between Vedanta and the Buddhist Challenge
The Bhagavad Gita (circa second to third century BCE) occupies a singular place in Indian philosophy—it grants full acknowledgment to Vedantic selfhood while absorbing within its own framework the Buddhist challenge of suffering and detachment. When Arjuna stands on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, trembling at the thought of slaying his kinsmen and refusing to take up his bow, Krishna offers him Vedanta's sharpest rebuttal against Buddhist impermanence. In Gita 2.16: "Nasato vidyate bhavo nabhavo vidyate satah"—"That which is unreal has no being; that which is real never ceases to be." And in 2.17: "Avinashi tu tad viddhi yena sarvam idam tatam"—"Know that to be indestructible by which all this is pervaded." Here Krishna speaks plainly: yes, the world is impermanent—the Buddhists have said rightly thus far. But behind the impermanent world stands an imperishable reality—and to know that reality is true knowledge. The body dies; the self does not. Therefore fight at Kurukshetra, for you are not truly slaying anyone—the self is beyond the reach of the sword.
Yet the Gita's most revolutionary contribution is the doctrine of actionless action—or rather, action without attachment to fruit (niṣkāma karma): "Your right is to action alone, never to its fruits" (2.47). This addresses the Buddhist doctrine of suffering from an entirely new angle. Buddhism teaches: the root of suffering is craving (tanha)—therefore renounce the world to extinguish craving, become a monk, take ordination. The Gita says: yes, attachment is the source of suffering—but you need not flee from action to dissolve it. Act—but be unattached to the fruits of your action. It is possible to dwell in the world and yet be free of it even while there. Gita 6.6 and 6.19 are verses that even Glasenapp himself cites in his own commentary as authentic testimony to Vedantic selfhood.
The Gita's concept of the sthita-prajna (2.54-72)—one whose wisdom is unshakeable, for whom gain and loss, joy and sorrow are alike—is comparable to the Buddhist arhat: both dwell in the world untouched by it. Yet the distinction runs deep: the arhat renounces the world (takes ordination, abandons household life for the monastic path), while the sthita-prajna acts within the world—but acts with perfect indifference, like a water drop upon a lotus leaf. The lotus blooms in mud, yet the mud does not cling to it—such is the Gita's ideal: dwell in the world, but let the world not touch you.
Chan and Zen: From Bodhidharma to Gongan—The Living Application of Anatman
Chan (Chinese; Japanese: Zen) Buddhism—transmitted from India to China in the sixth century through Bodhidharma (circa fifth to sixth century)—represents the most dramatic and vivid application of anatman doctrine. Where Theravada understands anatman through systematic analysis (dissect the aggregates and see—nowhere is there a self), Chan and Zen transform anatman into an immediate, direct experience—without intellectual analysis. The essence of Chan is crystallized in Bodhidharma's legendary four-line verse: "A special transmission outside the scriptures, not founded upon words and letters, pointing directly to the human mind—see one's nature and attain Buddhahood." These four lines carry profound significance in the context of Glasenapp's own analysis, for here it is direct experience, not scriptural authority (the pramana of verbal testimony), that is declared ultimate.
The legendary dialogue between Bodhidharma and the Chinese Emperor Wu (recorded in the Blue Cliff Record, Case 1) establishes the fundamental tone of Chan philosophy. Emperor Wu was a generous patron of Buddhism—he had built many temples and commissioned countless scriptural copies. He believed he had accumulated boundless merit. When he asked Bodhidharma, "How much merit have I?" Bodhidharma replied, "No merit whatsoever." The Emperor asked, "Then what is the supreme meaning of the holy dharma?" Bodhidharma answered, "Vast emptiness—nothing sacred in it." The Emperor pressed further: "Then who stands before me?" Bodhidharma said, "I do not know." These three answers disclose three layers of Buddhist anatman doctrine: there is no attachment to the fruit of deeds (the first—the notion "I have done good, I shall reap reward" is itself the bondage), at the ultimate level there is no "sacred being" (the second—neither Brahman nor God exists, only emptiness), and even the question "Who am I?" admits no fixed answer (the third—the deepest truth).
# The Third Response as the Inverse of the Upanishadic “Aham Brahmasmi”
The third response stands in direct opposition to the Upanishadic declaration “Aham Brahmasmi” (“I am Brahman”): where the Vedantist answers the question “Who am I?” with “I am Brahman,” Bodhidharma says “I do not know” (bu-shi—that which cannot be confined within the boundaries of the knowable).
In the subsequent Chan tradition, the method of koans (kōan—paradoxical utterances, dialogues, or incidents prescribed for meditation) becomes a riddle-like formulation that cannot be fully resolved through ordinary logic, yet propels the practitioner toward deeper insight; it becomes an instrument for transforming the doctrine of non-self from intellectual knowledge into experiential realization. “What was your original face before your parents were born?”—this koan is structurally similar to the Vedantic self-inquiry (for both circle back to “Who am I?”), yet arrives at a completely opposite conclusion: the Vedantist seeks that “original face” which is the eternal atman; the Zen practitioner discovers that there is no “original face”—and that very discovery is liberation.
Hui-ke (the second patriarch in the Chan tradition, Bodhidharma’s student and successor) said to Bodhidharma: “My mind is troubled; pacify it for me.” Bodhidharma replied: “Bring me your mind, and I will pacify it.” After a long search, Hui-ke said: “I cannot find my mind.” Bodhidharma responded: “Then I have already pacified it for you.” This dialogue is the most dramatic application of the doctrine of non-self: if what you seek cannot be found, whose disturbance is it? If the “I” that believes itself troubled does not exist—then how can trouble exist?
## Ramakrishna Paramahamsa versus Buddhist Vipassana: The Same Method, Opposite Conclusions
In the modern age, Glazebrook’s controversy is most vividly expressed in the comparison between the self-inquiry method of Ramana Maharshi (1879–1950) of Tiruvannamalai in South India and the Theravada Buddhist practice of vipassana (vipassanā) meditation. At the age of sixteen, Ramana Maharshi passed through an intense experience of the fear of death and arrived at a realization that he would teach throughout his life. His method is simple: whenever a thought arises, ask—”To whom does this thought occur?” The answer comes: “To me.” Then ask—”Who am I?” (Nān Yār?)—this question seeks no intellectual answer but rather returns the questioner to the source of the question itself. At the end of inquiry, the “I”-thought (ego) dissolves and what remains is the Self—pure consciousness, sat-chit-ananda. Ramana said: “The Self always exists; only ignorance’s veil covers it.”
In Buddhist vipassana (as described in the Satipatthana Sutta, Majjhima Nikaya 10 (MN 10)—which the Buddha himself called the “ekayano magga,” the “only way”) the meditator observes each experience in precisely the same manner—witnessing the body, sensations, mind, and mental objects in their moment-to-moment arising and passing away. Yet the result is entirely opposite: where Ramana declares “the observer is the Self—after observation, what remains is pure consciousness,” the Buddhist vipassana practitioner discovers that “the observer itself is a conditioned process—after observation, nothing permanent remains.” The same microscope, the same specimen, a different report.
Ramana perceives: beneath all waves lies the ocean—waves come and go, the ocean endures. The Buddhist practitioner perceives: there is no ocean apart from the waves—the “ocean” is merely a conventional name for the waves themselves. This comparison is a living image of Glazebrook’s entire analysis—the same spiritual practice (observation, meditation, inquiry into consciousness) can arrive at two completely different philosophical conclusions, because the conclusion depends upon the fundamental metaphysical context—atman or anatman.
## Comparative Spiritual Geography: Patanjali, the Sufis, and Plotinus
The Vedantic and Buddhist conceptions of liberation become clearer when we set them alongside the concepts of liberation from other spiritual traditions—creating a comparative map.
### Patanjali’s Kaivalya
In Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras (circa second to fourth century CE), liberation is kaivalya (kaivalya)—”supreme solitude” or “absolute isolation.”
In Sankhya-Yoga philosophy, Purusha (consciousness, multiple—a separate Purusha in each being) and Prakriti (matter, singular) remain eternally distinct—yet through ignorance, Purusha imagines itself mingled with Prakriti, as a crystal placed beside a red flower appears red, though the crystal remains transparent in truth. Kaivalya is liberation from this illusion of mixture—Purusha becomes established in his pure consciousness, Prakriti moves in its separate course. This differs from Vedantic liberation—for in Vedanta “all is one” (ekam eva advitīyam), but in Sankhya-Yoga two eternal realities exist (Purusha and Prakriti, and Purusha itself is not one but many). It differs too from Buddhist nirvana—for here an eternal Purusha is affirmed, which the Buddhists deny. Patanjali’s Kaivalya thus occupies a third position between Vedanta and Buddhism—the recognition of many Purushas brings it close to Buddhist pluralism, yet the eternality of Prakriti keeps it within the Vedantic tradition.
Sufi Fana and Baqa
In Islamic mysticism (Sufi philosophy) liberation unfolds in two stages: fana (fanā’, dissolution)—the complete annihilation of individual selfhood in Allah’s essence, as a river vanishes into the ocean; and baqa (baqā’, abiding)—after that dissolution, an eternal new existence “remaining” within the Divine. Mansur al-Hallaj (858–922) with his famous declaration “Ana al-Haqq” (I am Truth/God)—an astonishing echo of the Upanishad’s “Aham Brahmasmi.” Hallaj was executed for this very proclamation—as too in orthodox Brahmanical tradition, had a Shudra uttered “Aham Brahmasmi,” punishment would have followed. Sufi fana bears profound kinship with Vedantic liberation—both involve the dissolution of individual selfhood into the Absolute. Yet Buddhist nirvana differs fundamentally from fana—for in nirvana there is no “Absolute” into which one dissolves; nirvana is not “dissolution” but the complete extinction of all conditioned processes. The Sufi says: the river has mingled with the ocean. The Vedantist says: the river was never separate from the ocean. The Buddhist says: there is no river, no ocean—only the flow of water, which has been given a name.
Plotinus’s Henosis
Plotinus’s (205–270) henosis (henosis, union)—the dissolution of soul into the Absolute (“the One”)—so closely parallels the Vedantic union of jivatman and Paramatman that scholars long debated the possibility of direct Indian influence (though direct evidence remains uncertain—Plotinus studied in Alexandria, where Indian merchants and renunciates did arrive). Porphyry, Plotinus’s pupil, reports that his master experienced this union four times in his life—comparable to the description of the turiya state in the Mandukya: all duality dissolved, consciousness alone remains identical and whole. Yet Buddhist nirvana is not henosis—for “union” itself presupposes the prior existence of two realities (that which unites and that with which union occurs), which Buddhist philosophy denies. In Buddhist thought, “union” is impossible—for there is no separate “I” to unite with anything at all.