The color of mountain ?

We were seated around a table at a small restaurant in Bangalore, five of us celebrating a friend's promotion. The waiter brought out the house specialty—a rich, dark curry that the chef had apparently perfected over twenty years.

My friend Arjun took the first bite and his face lit up. "This is incredible. The spice balance is perfect—you can taste every layer. The cardamom, the black pepper, that hint of fennel. This is what cooking should be."

His wife Maya tried it next. She made a polite face but I could see the hesitation. "It's... interesting. A bit too heavy for me. All those spices kind of overwhelm each other. I can barely taste the vegetables underneath."

Across the table, Rajesh was already going for seconds. "Heavy? This is comfort food. Reminds me exactly of what my grandmother used to make. Even the consistency is the same—see how thick it is? That takes hours."

I took my bite. Honestly? I found it bland. Not bad, just... muted. Like all those carefully balanced spices Arjun was raving about had somehow canceled each other out into a uniform brown taste. I was already thinking about adding salt.

Same dish. Same chef. Same moment. Sitting at the same table, we might as well have been eating four completely different meals.

Arjun noticed my lack of enthusiasm. "You don't like it?"

"It's fine," I said. "Just not much flavor for me."

"Not much flavor?" He looked genuinely confused. "There are like fifteen ingredients in this."

And that's when Maya laughed. "Gaurav, didn't you tell me you had Covid a few months ago? Your taste is probably still recovering. My cousin couldn't taste properly for half a year after."

She was right. I had been sick about three months earlier, and some things still tasted off. But here's what struck me—even without that explanation, we were all correct. Arjun wasn't wrong about the complexity. Maya wasn't wrong about it being heavy. Rajesh wasn't wrong about it tasting like his grandmother's cooking. And I wasn't wrong about it being bland.

We were all tasting something real. Just not the same thing.

I kept thinking about that meal over the next few days. How sure each of us had been. How Arjun described those flavors with such precision, as if they were objective facts anyone could verify. How Maya's experience was completely different, equally valid, equally real.

It bothered me more than it should have. Which one of us tasted the "true" dish? What was it actually like?

A few weeks later, I was in Himachal, standing at a viewpoint looking at the mountains. It was late afternoon, and the light was doing something extraordinary. The peaks closest to me looked rust orange where the sun hit them directly. The ones further back were pale gray in their own shadow. The valleys between them showed deep purple where the light couldn't quite reach.

A couple next to me was taking photos, arguing about which filter captured the "real" color of the mountains.

And suddenly I was back at that restaurant table.

What's the true color of this mountain?

Then it hit me. There isn't one.

The color I was seeing right now would be completely different in an hour when the sun dropped lower. Different again at noon when it was overhead. Different on a cloudy day. Different at dawn. The mountain wasn't one color—it was responding to conditions. And even right now, in this exact moment, was I seeing the "real" color? My eyes process certain wavelengths. A bird flying past sees ultraviolet patterns I can't even imagine. A dog sees less color variation than I do. An insect sees the world in ways I have no reference for.

The mountain has no inherent color. It just responds to light, and different observers process that response through different equipment. Just like the curry had no single, true taste.Once you notice this pattern, you can't unsee it.

A colleague everyone calls "difficult"? I worked with him on a technical project last year and he was brilliant—focused, clear, collaborative. Put him in a meeting with unclear objectives and vague deadlines, and yes, he becomes irritating and combative. Same person. Different conditions. Different version emerges.

My sister complains that our mother is controlling and anxious. My brother experiences her as caring and supportive. I see her as distant and formal. We're all talking about the same woman, but we're each seeing the version of her that shows up in our particular relationship, shaped by years of different interactions, different expectations, different needs.

Music sounds transcendent when you're in the right mood and grating when you're stressed. The same song. Your nervous system is what changed.

I started paying attention to how often I make these fixed judgments. "That restaurant is overpriced." "This city is too crowded." "He's a pessimist." "She's always late." As if these qualities existed independently, floating in the air, waiting to be discovered. But they don't. They emerge in context. That restaurant feels overpriced if you're watching your budget this month and fair if you're celebrating and not tracking costs. The city feels crowded when you're rushing and vibrant when you're exploring. He's pessimistic in this situation, realistic in another, maybe even optimistic in a third context I haven't seen.

Nothing has fixed nature independent of context.

Here's where it gets personal, and maybe a little unsettling.

If the mountain has no inherent color, if the dish has no single taste, if people aren't fixed entities but contextual expressions—what about me?

I've spent years building a story about who I am. The responsible one in the family. The person who thinks things through. The technical guy who solves problems. I've made major life decisions based on this identity. Stayed in certain jobs because that's what responsible people do. Avoided risks because thoughtful people don't gamble. Helped family members because that's my role.

But what if "responsible me" only emerges in certain contexts? What if I became the responsible one because everyone else in my family was chaotic, and someone needed to be the anchor? Place me in a different family, and maybe I'm the creative one, the spontaneous one, the one who needs support.

What if "the technical problem-solver" is just how I show up at work because that's what the environment rewards? In a different setting—say, leading a meditation retreat or writing—completely different qualities might emerge.

The identity feels so solid. So real. So much like me. But maybe it's just contextual. A response to conditions, like the mountain responding to light.

The tighter I grip "I am X," the more reality hurts when it contradicts that.

"I am responsible" → things fall apart → "I failed.""I am competent" → I make a mistake → "Something's wrong with me.""I am a good person" → someone's angry at me → "They don't understand me" or "I'm actually terrible."

The identity creates expectations. Reality does what it does. Suffering emerges in that gap.

I see this in others all the time. The friend who can't quit a job he hates because "I'm not a quitter." The family member who won't acknowledge she needs help because "I'm the strong one." The colleague who can't take feedback because "I'm very experienced."

The identity becomes a prison. Not because the quality is bad—responsibility, strength, experience are fine things—but because we've made them fixed, essential, permanent. We've decided "this is who I really am," and now we have to defend it.

I've been experimenting with a different way of thinking about this.

Not "I am responsible" but "I responded to needs in that context."Not "I am technical" but "I developed technical skills when that's what was valued."Not "I am introverted" but "I conserve energy in certain environments."

The shift is subtle but significant. It's data instead of destiny. It's response instead of essence.

And here's what's strange—when I hold it this lightly, I don't lose the capacity. I can still be responsible, technical, introverted. But I'm not trapped by it. I can be irresponsible when that serves better. I can be non-technical in contexts where other skills matter. I can be outgoing when the situation calls for it.

The mountain doesn't suffer about being orange at sunset and gray at noon. It doesn't have an identity crisis. It doesn't think "Wait, yesterday I was purple, what's happening to me?" It just responds to conditions without anxiety. No fixed color to defend. No consistency to maintain with yesterday.

Why can't I be the same? Intense professional here, contemplative thinker there, adventurer somewhere else. Not contradictions. Just different responses to different conditions.

In meditation, sometimes something shifts. The constant inner commentary about "I am this, I should be that, I need to become this other thing" just... stops. What's left is awareness responding to what is, like the mountain responding to light.

It doesn't last. The brain defaults back to identity construction. The ego rebuilds itself, finds new qualities to claim, new stories to tell. But the glimpse matters. The reference point exists.

I've noticed I can create small gaps in daily life too. After a difficult conversation, instead of immediately defending why I reacted that way, I can pause and just notice: "Oh, that was work-identity trying to maintain competence." Let it dissolve for a moment. Watch it. Don't feed it.

When I catch myself thinking "I should feel X because I'm Y," I can just see that operating. "There's the identity again, creating an expectation." I don't have to believe it or reject it. Just see it.

This isn't about becoming egoless or achieving some enlightened state. It's simpler. It's just using past experience as data instead of destiny. Holding conclusions lightly—they're provisional, contextual, not eternal truths. Understanding that changing my response isn't betraying who I "really" am. I'm just responding to new conditions, like the mountain showing different colors throughout the day.

I still catch myself wanting to know: "But who am I really? What's the true me underneath all these contextual versions?"

And then I remember the mountain. The question itself is wrong.

Not "who am I really?"

But "what does this moment call for?"

The mountain doesn't agonize over its true color. It just is what it is, responding to light, changing constantly, completely itself in each moment without needing to be the same across all moments.

Maybe that's enough.

Maybe that's actually freedom.