The afternoon sky was heavy and gray.
The young man sat on the porch, tension still burning in his chest.
He had just argued with a friend over the phone, and the heat of it lingered.

The teacher stepped out with a basket of fresh vegetables.
He set it down, looked at the young man, and asked:

“What are you fighting with?”

The young man exhaled sharply.

“I’m… angry.
I see they’re wrong.
I see I’m right.
It’s so clear to me — why can’t they understand?”

The teacher nodded.

“That is because you still believe that if there is one, there must be two.
To step out of this fracture, you must touch the nature of nonduality.”

He sat beside him.

“You think there is right and wrong.
Good and bad.
This side and that side.
You and the other.”

The young man replied quickly:

“But there is right and wrong, isn’t there?
If not, how do we live?”

The teacher picked up a fallen leaf and held it up.

“Look at this leaf.
Is it yellow or beautiful?
Old or perfect?
Did it fall because it was wrong or right?”

The young man stayed silent.

The teacher continued:

“These divisions exist only in your mind.
The leaf doesn’t call itself anything.”

Then he spoke with the clarity of Krishnamurti:

“Look closely: who is dividing?
Can you find that person?”

The young man closed his eyes.

He searched.
He searched in anger.
He searched in the urge to prove himself right.
He searched in the feeling of “I must win.”

But there was no “divider.”
Only anger.
Only desire.
Only thought.

He opened his eyes.

“I… can’t find anyone.”

The teacher smiled.

“Exactly.
There is only division —
no one who divides.”

He stood and pointed to the sky above.

“Look at the sky.
Dark clouds, white clouds, thick clouds, thin clouds —
all are the sky.
No cloud is right.
No cloud is wrong.”

The young man looked up.

“Your mind is the same,” the teacher said.
“When you divide everything into right–wrong, good–bad,
you cut the sky into pieces.”

The young man lowered his head.

“But… if I don’t divide, I’m afraid I’ll be confused.”

The teacher shook his head.

“Nonduality is not confusion.
Nonduality is seeing that all divisions are concepts —
not reality.”

Then he added:

“When you stand on no side,
you begin to see the whole.”

The young man closed his eyes again.
The anger was still there —
but this time, he didn’t call it right or wrong.
He let it be, like a cloud drifting across the sky.

When he opened his eyes, the mind wasn’t perfectly calm —
but it no longer wanted to fight.
It felt like still water — reflecting everything without choosing sides.

The teacher said:

“Today, when the mind divides things into right–wrong, don’t say ‘I am right.’
Just see: division is passing through.”

The young man nodded.

Not because he had realized nonduality,
but because he finally understood:

Nonduality is not erasing right and wrong.
Nonduality is seeing that right and wrong have no one to cling to.

And when that “self” dissolves,
division dissolves with it —
like clouds dispersing when the wind shifts.