The afternoon sun was soft.
The young man sat under the mango tree with a notebook full of techniques:
meditation methods,
breath practices,
ways to let go,
ways to face emotions…

The more he read, the more confused he became.

The teacher stepped out with a pot of hot tea.
He set it down and asked:

“What path are you trying to find?”

The young man sighed.

“I want to know which way I should follow.
Which method is correct.
I’m afraid of choosing the wrong path.”

The teacher nodded.

“That is because you haven’t understood the emptiness of the path.”

He sat beside him.

“You think there is a right path.
A right method.
A right way to practice.
A right direction.”

The young man nodded firmly.

“Yes, teacher.
If there is no right path, how do I know where I’m going?”

The teacher picked up a small twig and drew a straight line in the dirt.

“Look at this line.
It is straight because I drew it straight.
If I draw it curved, it becomes curved.
If I erase it, it disappears.”

The young man stared at the line.

“The path has no inherent nature,” the teacher said.
“It doesn’t exist on its own.
It appears only when someone draws it, sees it, or believes in it.”

Then he spoke with the clarity of Krishnamurti:

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

The young man closed his eyes.

He searched.
He searched in the fear of “choosing wrong.”
He searched in the desire to “choose right.”
He searched in the feeling “I must reach something.”

But there was no “walker.”
Only desire.
Only fear.
Only thought.

He opened his eyes.

“I… can’t find anyone.”

The teacher smiled.

“Exactly.
There is only movement —
no one who walks.”

He pointed to the dirt road leading to the fields.

“Look at that road.
It doesn’t lead anywhere.
It only connects footsteps.
No fixed destination.
No fixed direction.”

The young man watched the road stretch into the distance.

“The path has no inherent nature,” the teacher said.
“It is not something you must find.
It is something that appears when you walk.”

He continued:

“There is no correct method.
No correct practice.
No correct direction.
Only awareness in each step.”

Then he added:

“When you stop searching for the path,
you begin to walk.”

The young man closed his eyes again.
The worries about “right or wrong” were still there —
but this time, he didn’t chase them.
He didn’t try to choose.
He didn’t try to decide.

He simply felt his breath,
the ground beneath him,
the wind through the leaves.

When he opened his eyes, his mind wasn’t perfectly calm —
but it was no longer frantic.
It felt like someone walking without needing a map.

The teacher said:

“Today, when the mind asks ‘Is this the right path?’,
don’t answer.
Just see: a question is passing through.”

The young man nodded.

Not because he understood the emptiness of the path completely,
but because he finally knew:

The path is not something to find.
The path is what appears when the “self” that seeks dissolves.
And when that “self” disappears,
every step becomes the path.