That afternoon, Unni was asked to chop vegetables. “This is karma yoga ,” Guruji said.
Unni returned to his software job, but he was no longer “Unni the engineer.” He became —not by renouncing the world, but by embracing it in his own language.
One evening, defeated, he sat on the granite steps of the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple in Thiruvananthapuram. An old Kalaripayattu master, Guruji Sreedharan, noticed him. malayalamyogi
Guruji’s eyes twinkled. “Fool. Yoga isn’t about leaving your mother tongue behind. It is about finding the rhythm within it.”
As Unni stirred the pan, he realized his frustration was melting. The sizzle became his mantra. The aroma became his offering. That afternoon, Unni was asked to chop vegetables
Unni had spent years chasing corporate success in Bengaluru. He returned home with a burnt-out mind, a bloated belly, and a deep disdain for the chaos of modern life. He decided to “find himself” in the Himalayas. But after three months of freezing silence in an ashram, he felt emptier than before.
Unni stared. The steam rose, swirled, and vanished. His mind started to race about office deadlines. Guruji tapped the mug. “Listen. The sound of the sip. That is your pranayama . The bitter taste on your tongue? That is pratyahara (withdrawal of senses). If you cannot be present with a simple kattan chaaya , how will you be present with God?” One evening, defeated, he sat on the granite
Guruji took Unni under his wing, but with a radical rule: No Sanskrit. Only Malayalam.