Your Mind Is a Prison, But You Hold the Key

The Open Prision by Canva

How an Ancient Mystic Text Unlocks the Secrets of Modern Anxiety, Overthinking, and Self-Sabotage

I have a friend who is brilliant. A literal genius. He can build a computer from spare parts, debate obscure philosophical texts, and whip up a gourmet meal from what looks like an empty fridge. But ask him to apply for a new job, and he freezes. "What's the point?" he'll say, sighing. "They'll just pick someone with more experience anyway." He has, without realizing it, built a cage for himself out of his own past failures. His past isn't just a memory; it's a life sentence. He’s stuck.

We all get stuck. We tell ourselves stories about who we are, what we can and can't do, and what the world will or won't give us. These stories feel real. They feel like us. But what if they're not? What if they are simply veils, distortions that limit our perception of reality?

Over a thousand years ago, a Kashmiri Shaivite text called the Shiva Sutras described this exact phenomenon. It introduced the concept of the five kanchukas, or "cloaks," that conceal our true nature. These aren't just mystical ideas from a bygone era. They are a surprisingly precise map of the modern human psyche, describing cognitive traps that psychologists and neuroscientists are only now beginning to fully understand.

These ancient mystics were the original cognitive behavioral therapists. They saw that our reality is shaped not by the world itself, but by the filters through which we perceive it. The five kanchukas are these filters. They are:

• Kalā: The cloak of limited authorship.

• Vidyā: The cloak of limited knowledge.

• Rāga: The cloak of limited desire.

• Kāla: The cloak of limited time.

• Niyati: The cloak of limited causality.

• 
  

Let's pull back these cloaks one by one. You might just recognize the mental prisons you’ve built for yourself. And, more importantly, you’ll see where the key has been hiding all along.

Kalā: The Cloak of "I Can't" and Learned Helplessness

Kalā is the first cloak, the belief in our own limited ability. It’s the voice that whispers, "You're not good enough," "You can't do that," or "It's impossible." This isn't just low self-esteem; it's a deep-seated sense of powerlessness.

My brilliant friend? He’s wrapped up in Kalā. He has accepted a narrative of limitation.

Modern psychology has a name for this: learned helplessness. First identified by psychologist Martin Seligman, this phenomenon occurs when a person (or animal) endures repeated adverse situations beyond their control and eventually stops trying to change their circumstances, even when they have the power to do so. They learn to be helpless. They have internalized the belief that their actions don't matter. Sound familiar?

Think about it. The student who fails a few math tests and decides they are "bad at math." The aspiring artist who gets a few rejections and stops creating. The person stuck in a dead-end job because they believe they lack the skills to find a better one.

This is Kalā in action. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. The belief that you can't becomes the reason you don't. Neuroscience shows us how this happens. When we repeatedly fail or feel a lack of control, our brain chemistry can change. Cortisol levels rise, and dopamine—the neurotransmitter associated with motivation and reward—takes a nosedive. The brain essentially rewires itself to expect failure, making it harder to initiate action. You’re not lazy; your brain is just running a very old, very unhelpful program.

Vidyā: The Distorting Mirror of Cognitive Bias

The second cloak is Vidyā, or limited knowledge. This isn't about being uneducated. It's about the biased, incomplete, and often flawed lens through which we interpret information. We think we see the world objectively, but we don't. We see it through the filter of our past experiences, beliefs, and emotional states.

Psychologists call these filters cognitive biases. And there are hundreds of them.

• Confirmation Bias: You believe people are generally selfish, so you only notice instances of selfishness, reinforcing your belief. You conveniently ignore all the acts of kindness you see. You scroll through your social media feed, and your algorithm, knowing you love a good outrage story, feeds you exactly what you expect to see.

• Negativity Bias: You receive ten compliments and one criticism, and which one do you obsess over for the next three days? Our brains are wired to pay more attention to negative information as a survival mechanism. This was great for our ancestors dodging saber-toothed tigers. Not so great when you’re just trying to get through a performance review.

• Dunning-Kruger Effect: This is the fun one where people with low ability at a task overestimate their ability. We’ve all met that guy at a party who, after watching one YouTube video, is suddenly an expert on quantum physics. That’s Vidyā in its most confident, and often most annoying, form.

  
  

These biases construct a distorted reality. We aren't seeing the world; we're seeing a reflection of our own minds. Vidyā is the ultimate echo chamber, a funhouse mirror that convinces us its warped reflections are the truth. It's the engine of overthinking, turning a simple "Did I say the wrong thing?" into a week-long internal trial where you are both the prosecutor and the defendant.

Rāga: The Golden Handcuffs of Desire

Rāga is the cloak of attachment and desire. It’s the relentless craving for things to be a certain way—for pleasure, for security, for love, for a specific outcome. It’s the feeling that "I will be happy when..."

When I get the promotion.When I find the perfect partner.When I lose ten pounds.When I get 10,000 followers.

This is the hedonic treadmill in action. We chase after something, believing it will bring us lasting happiness. We get it. There's a brief spike of pleasure. And then... the feeling fades. The goalposts move. The desire resets, and we start chasing the next thing. We are addicted to the wanting itself.

Social media is the modern temple of Rāga. Every scroll is a micro-dose of desire. We see curated images of perfect vacations, perfect bodies, and perfect relationships, and a little voice inside whispers, "I want that." We become attached to the likes, the comments, the validation. Our self-worth becomes tethered to an algorithm designed to keep us wanting more. It’s a brilliant business model, but a terrible blueprint for a happy life.

Neuroscience explains this as the dopamine-driven feedback loop. Dopamine isn't just about pleasure; it's about anticipation. It’s the chemical that says, "Do that again!" Every time you get a notification, you get a small hit of dopamine. This creates a powerful cycle of craving and reward, turning your phone into a digital slot machine. Rāga isn't just a philosophical concept; it's a biochemical reality that has millions of us glued to our screens.

Kāla: The Tyranny of the Ticking Clock

Kāla is the cloak of time. It’s the illusion that we are bound by a linear progression of past, present, and future. This creates a specific kind of mental suffering: time anxiety.

We live in regret of the past ("If only I had done things differently...") or in fear of the future ("What if things go wrong?"). The present moment? It barely gets a look-in. It’s just a frantic stepping stone between a past we can't change and a future we can't control.

This is the root of so much modern anxiety. We are a culture obsessed with productivity, with optimizing every second. Our calendars are packed, our to-do lists are endless, and our minds are constantly racing ahead to the next task. We feel like we're always running out of time.

This feeling is a trick.

The past is a memory trace in your brain. The future is a projection of your imagination. The only thing that is ever truly real is the present moment. Yet, we spend most of our lives as ghosts, haunting the corridors of what was and what might be. As Eckhart Tolle says, all stress is caused by being 'here' but wanting to be 'there'. This is Kāla. The ancient sages knew that when you are fully present, time as a source of pressure dissolves. There is only now.

Niyati: The Illusion of a Fated Path

The final cloak is Niyati, which is often translated as fate or destiny. It’s the belief that our lives are determined by external forces, by a script that has already been written. It’s the sense that things are happening to us, not through us.

In modern psychology, this maps perfectly onto the concept of an external locus of control. People with an external locus of control believe that their lives are shaped by luck, fate, or other people. They feel like pawns in a game they can't influence. "It is what it is," they might say, shrugging their shoulders at misfortune.

On the other hand, someone with an internal locus of control believes they are the primary architects of their own life. They take responsibility for their actions and believe they can influence outcomes.

Niyati is the ultimate surrender of personal agency. It’s the cosmic version of my friend's "What's the point?" It absolves us of responsibility, but at a terrible cost: our freedom. When we are shrouded in the cloak of Niyati, we react to life instead of creating it. We become passengers in our own journey.

Dissolving the Cloaks: The Power of Simple Awareness

So, we're all walking around, bundled up in these five cloaks of limitation. It sounds pretty bleak. Like we're doomed to be helpless, biased, craving, anxious puppets of fate.

But the Shiva Sutras don't just point out the prison. They hand us the key.

The key is awareness.

The text says, udyamo bhairavaḥ—"The upward surge [of awareness] is the Divine." Simply noticing these cloaks is the first and most powerful step toward dissolving them. You don't have to fight them, wrestle them, or defeat them. You just have to see them for what they are: mental constructs. Not you.

When the voice of Kalā says, "You can't," you can notice it. "Ah, there is the thought of limitation. There is that old story of helplessness." You don't have to believe it. You can simply observe it, like a cloud passing in the sky. In that space between the thought and your identification with it, freedom is born. You can choose to act anyway.

When you catch yourself falling into the trap of Vidyā, endlessly scrolling to confirm your outrage, you can pause. You can ask, "Is this the whole story? What am I not seeing?" You can consciously seek out different perspectives.

When the craving of Rāga pulls you toward your phone or toward an obsessive desire, you can feel it in your body without acting on it. You can notice the restlessness, the ache of wanting. By simply being with the sensation, you rob it of its power. You learn that you can survive the discomfort of wanting.

When Kāla sends your mind spinning into anxious futures or regretful pasts, you can bring yourself back to the present moment. Feel your feet on the floor. Notice the sensation of your breath. Listen to the sounds around you. The ticking clock of anxiety only has power when you are not here.

And when the weight of Niyati makes you feel like a victim of circumstance, you can ask one simple, powerful question: "What is one small thing I can do right now to move in the direction I want to go?" You reclaim your power, one choice at a time.

This isn't about becoming a perfect, enlightened being. I still have days where I feel like my friend, convinced I'm an imposter. I still fall down the rabbit hole of negativity bias. I still get hooked by desire. The difference is, now I can sometimes see the cloaks as I’m putting them on. And that, right there, is the beginning of everything. Awareness is the light that dissolves the shadows. The kanchukas are only powerful when they are invisible. Once you see them, they begin to lose their grip. You realize you were never a prisoner.

You were just wearing a disguise.