The Bhagavad Gita, in Chapter 9, verse 22, states:
"ananyāścintayanto māṁ ye janāḥ paryupāsate,
teṣāṁ nityābhiyuktānāṁ yogakṣemaṁ vahāmyaham."
"To those who worship Me alone, thinking of no other, to those ever steadfast, I provide what they lack and preserve what they have."
This verse highlights the significance of remembrance—a central theme across religions and spiritual traditions. But a fundamental question arises: Who are we remembering, and how?
Over the years, whenever the question of remembrance has come up, I have often wondered who or what we are truly trying to recall. Many have offered different answers, yet no one has ever said, "We do not know who or what to remember."
Spiritual teachings offer numerous metaphors on how to remember. It is said one should remember as a lover remembers the beloved. One well-known example describes a guru who plunges a disciple’s head into the water. As the disciple gasps for air, the guru lifts his head and says, "The intensity with which you longed for air—that is how intensely you should remember the Divine."
Yet, the question remains: Who or what are we remembering, and how?
Take, for instance, two lovers. Before marriage, they are constantly thinking of each other. But soon after marriage, the fervor fades. Why? Because once the veil of the unknown is lifted, the mystery disappears. This highlights a fundamental issue with remembrance: How do we remember that which is already known?
Our scriptures declare that the Divine cannot be truly "known." Yet, we praise and worship, expressing knowledge of its love, grace, and omniscience. But if true remembrance requires the absence of "otherness," then all our efforts—our praises, our rituals—are directed toward something already known, something that falls into the realm of "the other."
The key lies in the phrase "ananyāḥ cintayantaḥ"—"thinking of no other." This reflects the command in the Old Testament: "Thou shalt have no other gods before me." But what is "other"?
Anything that is known—a name, a form, a concept—is "other." Everything we have attempted to remember so far has been something known. No wonder we struggle to sustain true remembrance!
When confronted with this, we often justify ourselves by saying, "We must start somewhere; it is a step-by-step process." But if the ultimate object of remembrance is truly unknown, then the real question becomes:
How do we remember the Unknown?
The only option left is to pray—to pray with all our heart:
"O Unknown, becoming one with You is the true goal of life. Only You can show me how to remember You."
And then, wait.
This waiting is true śravaṇam (listening). But often, we do not truly listen—we are too busy chanting, mesmerized by the sounds of our own devotion. After prayer, we must remain in silence. Only in that silence does the shift in consciousness occur.
This shift must then be connected with—this is mananam (reflection or contemplation). From there, we meditate on that connection—this is nididhyāsanam (deep meditation).
This process repeats throughout our lifetime. It unfolds and keeps unfolding. We can never claim to "know it all." The moment we do, remembrance ceases, and we once again become "ananya chetāḥ"—thinking of the other.