Spirituality in the Age of Algorithms

Ramasubramanian opened with a compact thesis: “Algorithm guides processes; spirituality guides life.” He distinguished two ends of human striving — abhyudaya (material prosperity) and nihshreyasa (the fulfilment of moksha, “that beyond which nothing better can be conceived,” which resolves into shanti). Whatever leads you toward both, he said, is dharma. Spirituality he framed as the ancient inquiry — Nachiketa’s question to Yama — into whether anything exists beyond the mind–body–sense complex, since that complex cannot simply be taken as “I.” Where an algorithm increases the efficiency of a system already physically known, spirituality is the process of understanding what lies beyond that complex.

Asked later to connect Gödel’s incompleteness theorem to the dharmic view, he went to the Kena Upanishad’s opening: impelled by whom does the mind go where it goes? The parallel to Gödel is exact: if you associate yourself only with the mind–body–sense complex, the answer cannot be reached from inside — it requires stepping outside the system, the move the rishis supplied. He also cited the Mahabharata’s famous lament — I know dharma but do not act on it; I know adharma but am drawn to it — and named its cause: the nine obstacles (antarayas) of the Yoga Sutra, which he returned to later.

Hosur made the session’s central pun explicit: dharma is a procedure that sustains us and the universe — and a procedure is an algorithm. So dharma is an algorithm for your sustenance. He grounded the Bhagavad Gita’s claim that nothing is more sacred than knowledge, identifying its two components: material knowledge (what all scientists pursue) and adhyatmic knowledge (dharma, moksha, consciousness, superconsciousness) that cannot be verified by direct experiment yet cannot be denied. The Gita itself, he noted, is a yoga shastra — all eighteen chapters named as yoga, where yoga means both excellence in action and equanimity. Life, therefore, is a superposition of material and adhyatmic knowledge — two faces of one coin, inseparable.

Jeffrey turned to the Yoga Sutra’s yogash chitta-vritti-nirodhah — yoga as the calming of the waves of the mind. He offered a vivid image: picture the mind as a lake. When it is choppy, all you see are the waves — your thoughts, fears, desires, sanskaras — projected onto the world. When it is calm and steady (sthitaprajna), two things happen: the surface accurately reflects the surroundings, and it becomes transparent — you can see beneath, to the true self. He linked this to sleep: in dreamless sleep we come near this self (Mandukya Upanishad), and must draw near it regularly or we deteriorate. Meditation lets us do consciously what sleep does involuntarily.

He reframed the algorithm positively: dharma is the algorithm of the universe — attune to it, and lesser algorithms lose their power to distract. He quoted his Buddhist friend Bhante Sugata (“five minutes of quiet does wonderful things”) and George Harrison’s phrase “we are beggars in a gold mine.”

Nandram brought the definitions into the workplace, where “spirituality” risks being dismissed as vague. She defined it as a quality of any entity that connects the perceived and the beyond-perceived — a quality that can be developed, in a person, group, organisation, or nation. Her K-model operationalises this as a continuum of knowledge:

She argued that the unknown — K3 and K4 — is the wellspring of creativity, which we must actively tap. Dharma, she added, has layers: individual (your swadharma within the context you can control), social (respect for others’ views — “agree to disagree” against today’s polarisation), and cosmic (the governance you abide by).

Jeffrey agreed that training the gap between stimulus and response is an essential part of the answer. He noted a telling symptom: a perceived acceleration of time — everyone exhausted, everything changing too fast — which the scriptures name as a mark of the Kali Yuga. But we are not powerless: the Gita is a message of courage and resilience. His practical counsel was simple: fast from your devices, set aside screen-free time, and rediscover printed books, which are not engineered to stimulate the same way. He was clear he is no technophobe — these tools are wonderful for spreading dharmic teachings. The problem is that our tools have become more clever than we are, and we are still learning to use them without becoming their instruments.

Hosur offered the Gita’s own account of how attention is captured and corrupted: dwelling on objects breeds attachment → attachment breeds desire → thwarted desire breeds anger → anger destroys discernment → lost discernment destroys the capacity to think. Krishna, as Yogeshwara, teaches the reverse: control the senses, act for the good of the world (loka) rather than the self, and remain content within. He reminded the room that the whole drama of the Mahabharata is internal: dharmakshetra is the body where we debate right and wrong; kurukshetra is the field where we act.

Step back from the day as if watching yourself “from another planet,” and ask: What did I do? What questions did I ask myself? Since life is inquiry into ultimate reality, and the workday leaves no room for deep questions, this detached view yields answers, dissolves emotional heaviness, and prompts the dharmic question: where did I encroach on another’s space, and where was mine encroached upon? She also introduced her team’s “M-model”: hand the mindless tasks to technology, and reserve your attention for the mindful ones — using the tools while guarding the space they threaten.

Recovering from a badly broken ankle, Jeffrey detached — “I am not my ankle, I am not this body” — visualised the pain as a distant object seen through a telescope, and found concentration more effective than the fog of pain medicine. Beyond meditation, he recommended a fifth-century Buddhist exercise, the five-day reversal: recall in reverse order five things you experienced today, then five from yesterday, back five days. This sharpens memory and concentration — most of us, he noted, cannot recall two days ago, let alone past lives. His wider counsel: learn a language, an instrument, anything new — and away from screens; the mind is a muscle.

In meditation, affirm what is already true: I am pure, I am peaceful; no one else is responsible for my problems. Recognise that samskaras and outer entanglements accrete onto the atma like a karmic passbook carried from birth to birth — so choose every step with care, as on a path strewn with thorns and flowers. And treat life as a river: the water that has passed will not return, so catch what comes as opportunity and stop lamenting what is gone. He closed with the Gita’s final promise — “where Krishna is, there is victory” — where victory means peace.