Moksha in the Modern World

Moksha in the Modern World

By : Sanjay Shharma

In the Ramayana, when Ram is exiled to the forest, he walks away from a kingdom, a crown, and a life of comfort without a second thought. But when his father Dashrath dies, Ram breaks. He weeps. He remembers. He aches like any son would. The gods may have called him divine, but in that moment, he was profoundly human.

And still—he kept walking. Through grief. Through exile. Through loss.
That is Maryada Purushottam—the perfect man not because he escaped emotion, but because he never let emotion own him.

This idea, this wisdom, stayed with me. Quietly. Patiently.
Until life gave me the experience to understand it.

I used to think moksha was something only saints achieved.
Something reserved for monks in forests or old sages sitting cross-legged, away from the world.
I imagined it as some golden light, some unreachable peak, a kind of spiritual retirement after you’ve had enough of life.

But life, in its quiet wisdom, gave me a different teacher.

It wasn’t in the Himalayas. It was in my own home. It was from my Father.

Babuji didn’t preach. He didn’t sit on a stage.
But for years—no, decades—he lived like a flame that didn’t flicker.
Detached, but warm. Present, but not performative.
He wasn’t trying to become anything. He simply was.
Still. Clear. Unburdened.

He had already let go of the world long before his body did.

And I, with all my doing, all my chasing, all my proving, stood beside him without even realizing that he had already arrived at the destination we all pretend to seek.

When Babuji left—quietly, gracefully, on his own terms—I didn’t just lose a father.
I lost a mirror. I lost my quiet anchor. My inner compass.

There are still mornings when I wake up and reach, without thinking, for his presence.
A sound. A chair creak. A voice in the other room.
And there’s only silence.
But somehow, even that silence feels like him.

It’s been nearly a year and a half now.
But not a single day passes without him being with me.
Not in memory, but in the feeling of things.
A glance at the way the curtain moves in the breeze.
The way tea cools without being rushed.
The way silence sits in a room like something alive.

Every day, I inherit a little bit more of him.
Not through things.
Through being.

The strangest part is, I didn’t notice it happening at first.
But slowly, so slowly, I began to want less. Speak less. Prove less.
There was a time when I would attach myself to every identity—title, role, praise.
I wanted to be seen as thoughtful, as accomplished, as spiritual even.

Now, those things feel like extra layers.
Clothes I’ve outgrown.

The world still pulls. Fame still knocks sometimes.
People still say, “You should post this,” or “Why don’t you publish a book of yours?”
But the echo doesn’t land like it used to.
I nod, but inside, I feel quiet.
I don’t need to respond.

Because now, I’m no longer drawn to leave a mark.
I’m more drawn to leave the noise.

There was a time when I believed legacy was something we build in the world.
Now I understand—legacy is the silence we leave behind, not the sound.

Babuji left behind silence.
Not absence, but presence that no longer needed to be named.
He left not as someone who had done much, but as someone who had undone enough.

This world counts wins.
But in the final count, it’s what we let go of that frees us.

Our attachments.
Our performances.
Our need to matter.

The most beautiful part?
Nothing outside needs to change.

You don’t need to renounce your job.
Or your family.
Or your phone.

You just start unhooking—gently—from the illusions.

The illusion that you're what you do.
The illusion that being seen equals being loved.
The illusion that joy must be captured or shared to be real.

When I sit with that, really sit, I see how much I’ve already let go.
And how much more is still releasing itself from me.
Not in grand gestures, but in quiet refusals.

Refusals to chase.
Refusals to explain.
Refusals to hold what I’ve outgrown.

And so I walk now—not away from the world, but through it.
Lighter. Slower.
Less as a man trying to make something of his life,
and more as a soul remembering he was already whole.

That is my moksha.
Not an escape.
A soft, spacious, and sacred return.

I began to see this more clearly in the life of Ram.

Ram, the Maryada Purushottam, the finest embodiment of dharma within human form, felt loss deeply.
He grieved for Dashrath like any loving son.
But he didn’t let sorrow paralyze him.
He walked forward.

That is where his divinity lived—not in emotionlessness, but in unwavering awareness.

And then came the moment I understand now more than ever.

After the war. After victory.
When the skies opened. The gods praised Ram.
And Dashrath appeared from heaven - radiant, proud, overflowing with joy and love for his son.

And Ram, ever steady, turned to his father and said:
“Father, let go. This joy, even this pride—release it. Until you drop every last thread of attachment, even the golden ones, you cannot be truly free. When you detach from everything , every emotion , only then will you attain moksha.”

That is the heart of it.

Ram wasn’t just speaking to Dashrath. He was speaking to all of us.

Because even joy can bind.
Even love can grip.
Even celebration can chain the soul if we’re not willing to let it pass.

Ram asked Dashrath to let go.
Not just to leave the world—but to stop carrying it.

And now, when I look back, I know Babuji did exactly that.

He didn’t need to be told.
He had already done it.

He had dropped every rope—identity, pride, ambition, even the desire for recognition.
He didn’t cling to his life.
He offered it, including his body, in final selflessness.

He attained what Dashrath had to be guided toward.
He lived what Ram asked for.

And I know, with all my being, that Babuji attained moksha.
Not because he fought for it.
But because he no longer needed anything.
Not even the idea of liberation.

He was already free.

That is moksha in the modern world.
Not somewhere else.
Not someday.

Here. Now.

In the way you talk to people.
In the way you sit with your sadness without fleeing.
In the way you don’t need to be seen anymore, to feel worthy.

It is happening slowly to me.
And I trust that, if I stay gentle and awake, it will happen more.

Not as an achievement.
But as a return.

And maybe, if you’re quiet enough, you’ll hear it in yourself too.
The sound of letting go.
The sound of finally coming home.

I may add

You don’t need to renounce the world to find peace.
You just need to stop clinging to it.

Moksha isn’t some distant mountain peak.
It’s a quiet loosening inside you.
A soft undoing of all that you no longer need to carry—titles, roles, recognition, grief, even joy.

Through the lives of Ram, Dashrath, and Babuji, you are reminded that freedom comes not from escape—but from gentle release.

You can live fully, feel deeply, love truly—and still be free.
All it takes is presence without possession.
Emotion without entanglement.
Stillness without withdrawal.

This piece is an invitation to begin—not dramatically, but sincerely.
To sit with yourself.
To let go of one thing today.
To stop chasing silence and start living inside it.

Because moksha isn’t later.
It’s now—in the way you smile, hold someone’s hand, or simply breathe.

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About the Author

Sanjay Shharma is a seeker, storyteller, and observer of life who weaves timeless truths into everyday reflections. Drawing from the well of Indian wisdom and personal insight, his writings awaken remembrance — not of something new, but of what was always within. Through simplicity, stillness, and soulfulness, he invites us not to become more, but to remember who we already are.