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The Western, Buddhist, and Upanishadic Answers to the Problem of the Self

Man looking in the mirro

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Your body and mind have changed enormously in the course of your life, and will continue to change. Yet, convention has you, from the baby to the retiree, as the same person.

But let’s not be so conventional. Let’s take the time to ask: what is a ‘person’, and what would it take for a person no longer to be that same person? Are you the same, identical person at all times? Are you the same person that you were a minute, a day, a year, ten years ago? If so, what is the abiding factor?

The English philosopher John Locke (1632-1704) famously defined a person as ‘a thinking, intelligent being, that has reason and reflection, and can consider itself as itself, the same thinking thing, in different times and places.’ According to this definition, you are a person because you can think about yourself in the past, future, and conditional, and in a variety of different places: ‘Last month I could have won the lottery, if only I had bought a ticket.’ 

This may tell us what it takes to be a person, but it does not tell us what constitutes the person—or what it is that makes you this self-conscious mental being. Is it your body, your brain, your ‘soul’?

Three Thought Experiments

Imagine, God forbid, that you have a serious accident that leaves you lying brain-dead on a hospital bed. Your body is being kept functioning, but you are no longer self-conscious nor can you ever be again. Are you, in that permanent brain-dead state, still a person? If not, then your physical body cannot be that which makes you a person. And if it is not your physical body, the obvious candidate is your brain or mind.

Some philosophers have argued that you remain the same person because your body or brain remains the same body or brain, in the sense that it is spatiotemporally continuous (continuous in space and time). Others have argued that you remain the same person because you are psychologically continuous, that is, because your later mental states derive or descend from your earlier mental states.

To help decide this problem, the American philosopher Sydney Shoemaker (1931-2022) asked us to imagine that science has advanced to such an extent that brain transplants are now possible. On the same morning, two men, Mr. Brown and Mr. Robinson, each have their brain removed and operated upon. However, a poorly trained assistant inadvertently puts Brown’s brain into Robinson’s head, and Robinson’s brain into Brown’s head. One of these men dies, but the other—say the one with Brown’s brain and Robinson’s body (let’s call him ‘Brownson’)—eventually regains consciousness. When asked his name he replies, ‘Brown.’ Subsequently, he is able to recognise Brown’s wife and family and to relate Brown’s childhood memories, but he cannot recognise Robinson’s wife and family nor relate Robinson’s childhood memories.

Who then is this man Brownson with Brown’s brain and Robinson’s body? If he is Brown, as most people would argue, this would confirm our earlier intuition that a person cannot be reduced to a body. This leaves us with two possibilities: Either Brownson is Brown because he has Brown’s brain, or he is Brown because he is psychologically continuous with Brown.

To decide between these two possibilities, let us push our thought experiment further still. As people can survive with extensive damage to one cerebral hemisphere, let us imagine that Brownson’s brain (or indeed anyone’s brain, say Smith’s) is divided into two hemispheres and that each hemisphere is transplanted into a brainless body. After the operation, two people awake who are both psychologically continuous with Smith, and who have the same character and memories as Smith.

Although both people are psychologically continuous with Smith, they cannot both be Smith—or, by the transitivity of identity, they would also be each other! Moreover, from the moment they awake, their lives and experiences will begin to diverge.

Our attempt to decide between brain and psychological continuity as the seat of personal identity has landed us in an even deeper difficulty: whereas both brain and psychological continuity seem capable of division, personal identity is not.

Parfit and the Pearl of Self

In considering this kind of ‘fission’ thought experiment, the Oxford philosopher Derek Parfit (1942-2017) argued that personal identity may not be what matters.

Because neither of the two people who acquired one of Smith’s brain hemispheres is Smith, Smith cannot be said to have survived the fission of his brain. Yet, everything that matters about Smith—his memories, character, intentions, relations—has survived in both of the transplantees. And it would be absurd to destroy one of the transplantees simply so that we could preserve numerical identity and claim that Smith had survived.

For Parfit, there is no further fact about personal identity, no ‘pearl of self’ that passes intact from one moment, or body, to the next. What matters is not identity but continuity.

This sounds radical. But to me, who has written on Indian philosophy, it rings a bell—or even two.

The Buddhist Take

More than two thousand years before Locke, Shoemaker, and Parfit, the Buddha had argued that what we take to be the self is composed of five elements (skandhas), namely, body, sensation, perception, will, and consciousness. The five skandhas are in a constant state of flux but together create the illusion of integrity and continuity, that is, the illusion of the self.

This explains why, when I try to become aware of myself, I can only ever become aware of such and such perception, such and such sensation, or such and such thought, but never of any actual, core self.

The death of the bodily self leads to the disaggregation of the skandhas and to their re-aggregation into another not-self, which is neither identical to nor entirely different from the previous one, but forms part of a causal continuum with it. An analogy that is often offered to describe this process of rebirth is that of a flame, fuelled by desire, passing from one candle to the next.

The cycle of rebirth can only be broken by transcending our subjective and distorted image of the world, which is built around the ‘I am’ conceit. This, then, is nibbana, or, in Sanskrit rather than Pali, nirvana.

Nirvana, as I see it, rests on the understanding that consciousness is a sequence of conscious moments rather than the continuous, unbroken consciousness of the ‘I am’ conceit. This understanding, so long as it can be maintained, amounts to freedom from the self.

The Upanishadic Take

While Parfit and the Buddha have much in common, the Upanishadic tradition adopts a different approach.

When I look for my self, I find my body, sensation, perception, and so on. The Buddhist concludes that, since none of these is permanent, there can be no permanent self. But the Upanishadic sage might ask: who, or what, is aware of all these things?

The answer of the Upanishads is the Atman, or true Self: not the skandhas, which wax and wane, but the consciousness that is aware of them. Just like the eye cannot see itself, though it sees all else, so this ‘witness consciousness’ cannot observe itself. But through every change, it is the one constant.

Whereas the Buddhist concludes that there is no enduring self, the Upanishadic sage concludes that we have been looking for it in the wrong place. The self is not something that we experience, but that by which we experience. It is not an actor on the stage, but the prince watching from behind the curtain.

Two birds sitting in a tree
The jiva and Atman, sitting in a tree

East and West

We began by asking what, from baby to retiree, makes you the same person. The body could not provide the answer, while brain and psychological continuity proved capable of division. Parfit’s solution was to question the question: beyond continuity, there is no further fact of personal identity.

The Buddhist arrives, by a very different route, at essentially the same conclusion. What we call the self is a succession of changing states and processes, held together by causal continuity and the ‘I am’ conceit. Liberation lies not in finding the self, but in freeing ourselves from it. To ‘know yourself’ is, paradoxically, to know that there is no self to know.

The Upanishadic sage, though acutely aware of the problem, succeeds in salvaging the abiding self. No abiding self can be found among the changeable contents of consciousness, because the true Self is not one of those contents, and not changeable.

All three traditions have noticed that the self cannot be found among the contents of experience. From this, the Western tradition and Buddhism conclude that there is no self. The Hindu tradition preserves the self by distinguishing between the personal self, or jiva, and the universal Self, or Atman. Where the jiva is attached, ever-changing, and mortal, the Atman is detached, steadfast, and immortal, and of a kind with God, or Brahman. The precise relationship between Atman and Brahman is a major theme, and dividing line, in Hindu philosophy.

In the Shvetashvatara Upanishad, the jiva and Atman are compared to two inseparable birds sitting in a tree (the body). One bird, the jiva, gorges on the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree, while the other bird, tasting of neither, calmly looks on.

We can never catch the second bird, because it is the one that is looking. And so it remains forever elusive. But if the Upanishadic vision is correct, to know that bird is to know both ourselves and God, and, as in Buddhism, to transcend the distinction between self and other.

In the West, we tend to look upon the personal self as a problem to be solved; in India, as the key to salvation.

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If Not Physical Fitness, What Was Yoga Originally For?

Indian yogi in meditation
The original purpose of yoga was not to strengthen the body, but to free the mind.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Millions of people practise yoga for stronger backs, greater flexibility, or relief from stress. These are genuine benefits. But they were never yoga’s original purpose.

The first yogis were not searching for physical fitness. They were searching for freedom.

More than two thousand years ago, Indian philosophers concluded that the root of human suffering lies not in the body but in the mind—or, more precisely, in our mistaken understanding of who we are. Yoga emerged as a practical method for overcoming that mistake.

The First Meaning of Yoga

One of the earliest surviving discussions of yoga appears in the Katha Upanishad, composed around the fourth century BCE. There, the brahmin boy Nachiketa rejects wealth, power, and a long life to ask Yama, the god of death, a single question: What becomes of us after death?

Yama replies that this knowledge cannot be gained through study alone, but only through yoga, which he defines as ‘the firm holding back of the senses’:

When the five organs of perception become still, together with the mind, and the intellect ceases to be active: that is called the highest state.

From the beginning, then, yoga was not a form of exercise but a discipline of inner stillness.

Why We Suffer

Classical yoga rests on Samkhya, one of the oldest schools of Indian philosophy. It seeks to explain both the nature of reality and the origins of human suffering.

According to Samkhya, reality consists of two fundamental principles. The first is Purusha, pure consciousness or the witnessing self. The second is Prakriti, which includes not only the physical world but also the body, the senses, the ego, and even the mind itself.

An ancient Indian image captures the idea beautifully. Two birds perch in the same tree. One pecks eagerly at the fruit, tasting now sweetness, now bitterness. The other simply watches. The first bird represents the self absorbed in the changing experiences of life; the second, the silent witness that remains untouched by them.

Yoga teaches that we mistake ourselves for the first bird when our true nature is the second. We identify with our thoughts, emotions, and fears, forgetting that these are passing experiences rather than our deepest identity.

Yoga Beyond Meditation

Composed in the centuries around the beginning of the Common Era, the Bhagavad Gita broadened the meaning of yoga. Alongside meditation, it described the yoga of knowledge (Jnana Yoga), selfless action (Karma Yoga), and loving devotion (Bhakti Yoga).

Its central message is that freedom comes not from withdrawing from life but from living without attachment to success or failure. Like Stoicism, the Bhagavad Gita teaches that peace of mind depends less on what happens to us than on how we meet it.

As the god Krishna tells the warrior Arjuna:

Work done for a reward is much lower than work done in the Yoga of wisdom.

Yoga was no longer confined to the forest or meditation hall. Everyday life itself could become a spiritual practice.

Patanjali’s Yoga

The philosopher Patanjali transformed these ideas into a practical discipline in the Yoga Sutra, the foundational text of classical yoga. He famously defined yoga as:

Yoga is the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind.

To achieve this, Patanjali described an eightfold path combining ethics, posture, breath control, concentration, and meditation, culminating in samadhi, complete absorption. Significantly, the physical postures (asanas) formed only one stage of this much larger discipline.

How Yoga Became Exercise

If yoga began as a path to liberation, how did it become associated with stretching and physical fitness?

The answer lies in its long evolution. Later traditions, especially Hatha Yoga, placed increasing emphasis on physical postures, though still in pursuit of spiritual liberation.

The decisive shift came in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when Indian teachers such as Tirumalai Krishnamacharya presented yoga in dialogue with Western physical culture and modern medicine. Their students—including B. K. S. Iyengar and Pattabhi Jois—introduced these new forms of postural yoga to Europe and America, where they proved enormously popular.

Modern yoga is therefore not a misunderstanding of the tradition so much as one particular branch of it. While its philosophical roots remain ancient, its familiar image as a form of exercise is surprisingly modern.

The yoga practised by millions today is therefore only one chapter in a much older story.

The Original Purpose of Yoga

Millions of people come to yoga hoping for stronger backs, greater flexibility, or relief from stress. The first yogis hoped for something altogether more ambitious: freedom from suffering through a deeper understanding of the self.

Whether or not we accept their answers, the first yogis were asking one of humanity’s oldest and most profound questions:

Who am I?

For them, the search for that answer was the true purpose of yoga.

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The Upanishads and the Search for the True Self

Two birds in a tree

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Who am I? This is perhaps the oldest and deepest question in philosophy. More than two and a half thousand years ago, the sages of the Upanishads rose up to it. Their meditation, often conveyed obliquely in the form of stories, remains one of the most striking and illuminating in the history of human thought.

The Story of Indra

In the Chandogya Upanishad (c. 7th century BCE), Indra, king of the Vedic gods, and his nemesis, Virochana, king of the asuras (anti-gods), go to the ashram of the creator god, Prajapati, to learn the secret of Atman (the Self).

Prajapati takes them both in, and, after 32 years, summons them and tells them that Atman is the reflection of the self in the pupil of the eye. Satisfied with this answer, Virochana returns to the asuras, who take to venerating the bodily self.

But Indra is not so sure, and goes back to the ashram. After 32 more years as a brahmacharya (celibate student), Prajapati tells Indra that Atman is the dream self.

Still full of doubt, Indra is made to wait another 32 years, before being told that Atman is the unconscious self.

When Indra protests that no good can come of this knowledge, Prajapati keeps him for five more years and, after a total of 101 years, finally tells him the secret of Atman.

If Atman is neither the waking self, nor the dreaming self, nor the sleeping self, then what is Atman?

By having Indra wait for what is the natural lifespan of a wise person, Prajapati is making the point that the deepest truths cannot simply be taught, but must painstakingly be learnt. Wisdom is not something that can simply be handed over. It demands patience, perseverance, and, above all, the willingness to question even the answers one has already received. Virochana was content with appearances; Indra sought the truth behind them.

The Upanishads return to this mystery again and again. In one Upanishad, Indra spends a lifetime seeking the Self. In another, the same mystery is pursued by a very different seeker.

The Story of Nachiketa

The brahmin (priest) Vajashravasa purports to be sacrificing everything he owns, but his son Nachiketa notices that he is only offering up those cows that are old, lame, or otherwise unproductive.

Nachiketa repeatedly taunts his father, saying, “I too am yours! To which god will you offer me?” In a fit of rage, Vajashravasa cries out, “To Yama himself!”

Taking his father at his word, Nachiketa descends to Yama’s abode. But the god of death is out, and the boy is made to wait for three days without food or water. When Yama returns, he offers the brahmin boy three boons to atone for his lack of hospitality.

For the first boon, Nachiketa asks for peace between himself and his father when he is returned to the old man. Yama happily grants this.

For the second boon, he asks to learn the fire sacrifice, which he performs to Yama’s satisfaction.

Finally, for the third boon, he asks to be told what comes after death.

Yama replies:

Here, even the gods of yore had doubt. Indeed it is not easy to know—subtle is this matter—O Nachiketa, ask for some other boon. Press not this on me; give this up for me… Ask for centenarian sons and grandsons, many cattle, elephants, gold and horses. Ask for wide extent of earth and live yourself, as many autumns as you like.

But Nachiketa resists the riches of the world, saying that man is not to be satisfied with wealth: “If wealth were wanted, we shall get it, if we only see thee.”

Impressed by the boy, Yama agrees to tell him the Secret of the Self, which persists beyond the death of the body.

After a time, Nachiketa bids farewell to Yama and returns to his father as a jivanmukta, that is, one who has achieved moksha (liberation) in this life.

Whereas Indra’s trial was patience, Nachiketa’s was temptation. Both the god and the boy proved themselves worthy of the knowledge they sought.

The Secret of the Self

One seeker waited 101 years. Another contended with Death himself. Both sought the same truth.

What did Yama tell Nachiketa? And what, in the Chandogya Upanishad, did Prajapati finally tell Indra?

“Atman” is often translated into English as “soul” but does not include the individual or cognitive aspects of the Judeo-Christian soul and, for this reason, is better translated as “Self.”

In Hindu thought, the individual aspects of the Judeo-Christian soul, such as ego, mind, reason, emotion, and desire, are subsumed under the jivanatman (“life-breath”), or jiva for short.

Whereas the jiva, the personal self, is enmeshed in the world, the Atman is detached from this contingent life and incarnation. And whereas the jiva is ever-changing and evolving, the Atman, the universal Self, is steadfast and immoveable.

In the Shvetashvatara Upanishad, the jiva and Atman are compared to two inseparable birds sitting in a tree (the body). One bird, the jiva, gorges on the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree, while the other, tasting of neither, calmly looks on.

The Atman is neither the waking self, nor the dreaming self, nor the sleeping self, as Indra had been led to believe, but pure consciousness, or witness-consciousness, and of a kind with the supreme soul, Paramatman, which is either Brahman or an aspect of Brahman.

There is something within us that witnesses every thought without itself becoming a thought, every emotion without itself becoming an emotion. Our bodies change, our memories fade, our personalities evolve, yet the simple fact of awareness remains. The sages of the Upanishads identified this silent witness with the Atman.

In all living things, Atman is the spark of life, or light of consciousness, that ignites and illumines all else for the time that it remains embodied. It is the eternal core of a living being, which, in death, leaves it for another form, or, at long last, returns to the infinity of Brahman.

If the Self, the Atman, is made of the same stuff as the world, then self-understanding and self-control become means of understanding and controlling the world and existing on a higher plane.

In the Katha Upanishad, Yama tells Nachiketa:

Subtler than the subtle, greater than the great, in the heart of each living being, the Atman reposes. One free from desire, with his mind and the senses composed, sees the glory of the Atman and becomes absolved from grief.

Knowledge of the Self can be attained through the practice of yoga, which Yama defines for Nachiketa as ‘the firm holding back of the senses’.

This is the first recorded mention of ‘yoga’ in something close to its modern sense—and it is put into the mouth of Death himself.

Yama warns Nachiketa to be watchful, ‘for yoga comes and goes.’

More than twenty-five centuries later, the question that drew both Indra and Nachiketa remains our own. We spend much of our lives identifying ourselves with our bodies, our ambitions, our possessions, our memories, even our thoughts. The Upanishads invite us to look deeper. Beneath everything that changes, they suggest, lies something that does not: the silent witness, the Self, which is not merely ours but one with the universe.

Whether one accepts this vision or not, it remains one of humanity’s most beautiful and profound meditations on the oldest of all philosophical questions:

Who am I?

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Two Ancient Paths to the Same Human Truths

The Stoic dog and cart
The Stoic dog and cart: we can run willingly alongside the wheel of fate, or resist and be dragged along anyway.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Essay substantially revised on 14 August 2026.

The Stoic revival has picked up pace in recent years, with people looking for something more substantial than the material hedonism that has come to fill the space vacated by the retreat of organised religion.

Although more expressly rational, Stoicism has been compared to Buddhism, particularly Zen Buddhism, for being based on fluid concepts and flexible principles rather than blind faith and rigid dogma.

But the similarities do not end there.

Although Stoicism and Buddhism emerged at different times and a continent apart, they repeatedly arrive at strikingly similar conclusions about desire, attachment, suffering, and the good life.

Desire and Attachment

According to the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths, the cause of all suffering is desire, and the natural way to eliminate this suffering is the Noble Eightfold Path. The first division of the Noble Eightfold Path is ‘right view’, or maintaining perspective on reality.

Similarly, the Stoics taught that we ought at every moment to be rational. Unfortunately, we are too readily waylaid from reason by unwise attachments and the destructive emotions to which they give rise. These attachments dangle the promise of pleasure or happiness but really offer only slavery—whereas, if only we could see it, nothing leads to pleasure and happiness as surely as reason and self-control.

In the words of Marcus Aurelius, which are all the more remarkable for coming from a Roman emperor:

Keep in mind how fast things pass by and are gone—those that are now, and those to come. Existence flows past us like a river… Nothing is stable, not even what’s right here. The infinity of past and future gapes before us—a chasm whose depths we cannot see. So it would take an idiot to feel self-importance or distress. Or any indignation, either. As if the things that irritate us lasted.

The language differs, but the insight is much the same. We suffer not only because things change, but because we demand that they remain as they are. For both traditions, the path to freedom is not to exert greater control over the world, but to loosen the world’s hold over us.

God and Fate

Stoic physics is indebted to Plato’s Timaeus, in which the philosopher Timaeus claims that God’s creation is itself a god. Human souls, being fashioned from the inferior residue of the world soul, are aligned with the will of God. But once implanted into a body, they are overwhelmed by sensations and affections, which they can only overcome through appropriate nurture and education.

Like Buddhism and Advaita Vedanta, Stoicism rejects a separate divine sphere, arguing instead that God is infused in all things, including in us, who therefore share in His nature. We are, as the Stoic Epictetus often reminds us, a part or extension of God:

In conversation, exercise, discourse—do you remember that it is God you are feeding, God you are exercising? You carry God around with you and don’t know it, poor fool.

The Stoics were essentially pantheists, like Baruch Spinoza, who thought of God and creation as one and the same thing. And like that other great seventeenth-century philosopher, GW Leibniz, they believed that the universe is a rationally ordered whole and that everything that happens within it, if only we could see it, happens for the best of possible reasons.

Hence, our fate has already been determined: Instead of rebelling against it, we should be content to play the role that has been assigned to us. We are, said Zeno (the founder of Stoicism), like a dog tethered to a cart: the wise person runs smoothly alongside, whereas the fool struggles and strains but is dragged along anyway.

This is more subtle than simple fatalism. The dog cannot determine where the cart is going, but it can determine how it makes the journey. Its freedom consists in running willingly alongside the wheel of fate, instead of exhausting and injuring itself in futile resistance.

This echoes the Hindu concept of dharma, which can be translated, loosely, as ‘duty’. When Krishna addresses the reluctant warrior Arjuna in the Bhagavad Gita, he is not persuading him to fight so much as telling him that he is going to have to fight regardless:

Fettered by your own task, which springs from your nature, you will inevitably do what you in your folly do not want to do.

Evil and Liberation

Chrysippus, who succeeded Zeno and Cleanthes at the head of the Stoa, argued that evil is the inevitable consequence of nature’s goodness. For instance, many of the bones in the human skull are light and thin, improving it overall but by the same token leaving it vulnerable to blows. Evil presents us, as it did the hero Hercules, with opportunities to test and hone ourselves—and also a motive, for what would it mean to be good in a world without evil?

In Samkhya-Yoga, the world was created to purify souls and consciousness by providing them with experience and, in time, liberation. To put this more poetically, the world was created to show consciousness to itself. The doctrines of karma and moksha (liberation) could not hold in a world without evil.

Salvation, for the Stoic as for the Hindu, is to embrace life to the point of accepting fate, and so to become as one with the world. In Indian terms, it is to achieve moksha, that is, liberation from maya (illusion), dukkha (suffering), and samsara (the cycle of death and rebirth).

In the Encheiridion, Epictetus compares life to a landfall during a much longer sea voyage back to our homeland, and warns us not to get so caught up by the fruits and flowers as to forget about the ship.

For all their theoretical differences, the traditions keep arriving at the same practical conclusion: do not mistake the stopping place for the final destination.

Cosmopolitanism

Philosophers debate whether karma theory is a firm basis for morality or just an appeal to naked self-interest.

One way around this problem is to broaden the scope of karma to include thoughts as well as actions so that the system becomes impossible to game. Doing the right thing for the wrong reason is not the same, and does not feel the same, as doing it for the right reason. According to the Great Forest Upanishad, the truly virtuous act is the one that is desire-less. Like the Stoic archer, one must concentrate on doing the right thing, to the best of one’s ability, without being attached to the outcome.

For it is from attachment that life and misery arise.

The Buddha had another way around the problem, which is to deny the metaphysical distinction between the self and others—so that helping others is the same as helping oneself. 

The Stoics, too, believed that all human beings form part of a single organism. Just as our eyes, ears, and teeth each have a role to play in our body, so we too each have a role to play in society, even if it is only to serve as a warning to others.

‘Remember,’ says Seneca, ‘that he whom you call your slave sprang from the same stock, is smiled upon by the same skies, and on equal terms with yourself breathes, lives, and dies.’

To live selfishly is fundamentally self-defeating. To feel alive and happy, we need to have a sense of working with others, for others—because, like ants and bees, that is the kind of creature that we are. If we do not contribute to our community, we will feel disconnected and depressed. In a word, we will feel dead—and, in truth, might as well be.

Both Buddhism and Stoicism conclude that the good life cannot be lived for oneself alone. Buddhism arrives at this conclusion through the dissolution of the boundary between self and other, Stoicism through the oneness of humanity. Although the working out is different, the conclusion is the same.

Time and again, Buddhists and Stoics begin from different assumptions, yet converge on the same human truths: that everything changes, that attachment enslaves us, that resistance compounds suffering, that the good life cannot be lived for oneself alone, and that the boundaries we draw around ourselves are much more porous than they may seem.

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The Surprising Affinities Between Greek and Indian Philosophy

Le Char d'Apollon by Odilon Redon
Odilon Redon, Apollo’s Chariot (c. 1910). Both Plato and the Katha Upanishad compared the human soul to a chariot.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Essay substantially revised on 14 August 2026.

Western philosophy and Indian philosophy are presented as two quite separate traditions. Yet go back to their beginnings and the distinction starts to break down. Some of the earliest Greek philosophers held ideas that today we would be more likely to call ‘Eastern’ than ‘Western’.

At almost the same moment in history, Greek and Indian thinkers began asking many of the same questions, and, sometimes, coming up with remarkably similar answers.

How are we to explain these affinities? And if the two traditions began so close together, how did they end up so far apart?

Pythagoras

Pythagoras of Samos (c. 570-c. 495 BCE) was a near contemporary of Anaximander and Anaximenes, as well as the Buddha. He might even have met Thales of Miletus—‘the first scientist’—who, it is said, advised him to travel to Memphis to take instruction from Egyptian priests.

In antiquity, Pythagoras was better known as a philosopher than a mathematician. Although he may have introduced it to the West, the theorem that came to bear his name had been discovered centuries earlier by the Babylonians and Indians. His association with this theorem hints at some kind of Eastern connection.

At the age of 40, Pythagoras left Samos for Croton in southern Italy, where he established a philosophically minded religious community. Unusually for the time, Pythagoras admitted men and women alike. Of the 235 famous Pythagoreans listed by Iamblichus, 17 are women.

The men and women who entered the community’s inner circle were governed by a strict set of ascetic and ethical rules, forsaking personal possessions, assuming a mainly vegetarian diet, and—since words are so often careless and misleading—observing the strictest silence.

In India, at around the same time, the Buddha’s followers were organising into monasteries. The Buddha delivered many of his discourses in the monastery of Jetavana in Shravasti, which had been donated to him by the banker Anathapindada. Buddhist monks could eat meat if it was offered to them, but only after ensuring that the animal had not been slaughtered on their behalf. At her insistence, the Buddha’s aunt Mahapajapati became the first of many Buddhist nuns.

The first Buddhist monasteries served as a prototype for the world’s first residential university at Nalanda, just as Pythagoras’ community served as a model for philosophical institutions such as Plato’s Academy and Aristotle’s Lyceum, and, later, for the monastic life and associated early universities.

Music played an important role in Pythagoras’ community. Pythagoreans recited poetry, sang hymns to Apollo, and played on the lyre to cure illnesses of body and soul. One day, or so the story goes, Pythagoras passed by some blacksmiths at work, and found that their hammering produced especially pleasing sounds. He then noticed that their anvils were simple ratios of one another, one being half the size of the first, another twice the size, and so on.

This insight led to his ‘harmony of the spheres,’ according to which the movements of the heavenly bodies are in a mathematical relationship akin to that between musical notes, and, together, amount to a grand cosmic symphony.

Pythagoras (the name means ‘Oracle among the people’) never divorced religion from philosophy and science, which, even in his day, left him open to accusations of mysticism. No doubt under the influence of Orphism, a mystery religion rooted in pre-Hellenic beliefs and the Thracian cult of Zagreus, Pythagoras came to believe in metempsychosis, that is, in the transmigration of the soul at death into a new body of the same or a different species, until such a time as it became moral.

He himself claimed to have lived four lives and to remember them all in detail: in his first life, he had had the good fortune of being Aethalides, son of Hermes, who had given him the faculty of remembering everything even through death.

Taken together, vegetarianism, asceticism, a mixed community devoted to spiritual discipline, cosmic harmonies, and a belief in the transmigration of souls look rather more like a school of Indian religion than the beginning of Western philosophy.

But similarity does not prove influence. Ideas could have travelled through Persia and the wider networks connecting the Mediterranean with India, or they could reflect a deeper Indo-European inheritance. Or it may all be a simple coincidence. My own suspicion is that these similarities owe something to ideas travelling, indirectly and often imperceptibly, between East and West. Maybe Parmenides can help us figure it out.

Parmenides

After Pythagoras’ death in c. 495 BCE, the Pythagoreans deified him, and attributed him with a golden thigh and the gift of bilocation (being in two places at once).

In India, the first Upanishads, the Chandogya Upanishad and Great Forest Upanishad, had by then already been written. The central vision of the Upanishads is one of pantheism (all is God), with God hidden in nature ‘even as the silkworm is hidden in the web of silk he made’. God is Brahman and the part or aspect of Brahman that is in us is Atman. The aim then becomes to achieve the knowledge and unity of Atman and Brahman, which is wisdom, salvation, and liberation (moksha). When Socrates argued for self-knowledge over knowledge, he made the same turn as the Upanishads.

The student of Western philosophy might be reminded of Parmenides (c. 515-c. 440 BCE), who was still young when Pythagoras died. In his poem, On Nature, Parmenides contrasted the Way of Truth to the Way of Opinion. Through a chain of strict a priori deductive arguments from premises deemed incontrovertible, Parmenides argued that, despite appearances (the Way of Opinion), the universe must consist of a single undifferentiated and indivisible unity, which he called ‘the One’—comparable, of course, to Brahman.

In both East and West, we are asked to distrust the multiplicity presented by the senses and seek, behind it, a deeper and indivisible reality. As the Katha Upanishad puts it: ‘Who sees the many and not the one, wanders on from death to death.’

Plato, who might be considered the great systemiser of Western philosophy, was heavily influenced by both Pythagoras and Parmenides.

Plato

In the Metaphysics, Aristotle says that Plato’s teachings owed much to those of the Pythagoreans; so much, in fact, that Bertrand Russell upheld not Plato but Pythagoras as the most influential of all Western philosophers. Pythagoras’ influence is perhaps most evident in Plato’s mystical approach to the soul and in his emphasis on mathematics, and, more generally, reason and abstract thought, as a secure basis for the practice of philosophy.

Just as Plato (c. 427-c. 347 BCE) leaned upon Heraclitus and his theory of flux (‘No one ever steps twice into the same river’) for his conception of the sensible or phenomenal world, so he leaned upon Parmenides for his conception of the intelligible or noumenal world, which he rendered as the ideal, immutable realm of the forms.

Plato’s Phaedo, in which Socrates discusses the immortality of the soul with a pair of Pythagorean philosophers, is essentially an Upanishad in both form and content. Socrates argues that the forms cannot be apprehended by the senses, but only by pure thought, that is, by the mind or soul. Thus, the philosopher seeks in as far as possible to separate soul from body. As death is the complete separation of soul and body, the philosopher aims at death, and can be said to be almost dead.

Although the Phaedo is at the root of Western psychology, philosophy, and theology, it is also deeply Eastern in advocating supreme detachment and ego suppression or disintegration as the route to salvation.

In the Meno, Plato argues that learning is really recollection (anamnesis): the soul already possesses knowledge, and philosophical enquiry merely helps it to remember. Socrates demonstrates the point by questioning an uneducated slave boy until he works out a geometrical problem for himself. The truth, it seems, is not simply out there waiting to be discovered, but somehow already within us—a thought that sits remarkably well with the Upanishadic turn inward towards Atman and self-knowledge.

Underlying Plato’s theory of recollection is the idea that the soul existed before birth. Across the Phaedo, Phaedrus, and Republic, he repeatedly returns to the transmigration of the soul through successive lives, with its fate after death depending upon how it has lived. In the Myth of Er at the end of the Republic, the dead are rewarded or punished before choosing their next lives and drinking from the River of Forgetfulness prior to rebirth. Odysseus, having learnt from the sufferings of his former life, chooses the quiet life of an ordinary man—which he found easily, because neglected by everybody else. The parallels with the Indian doctrines of reincarnation and karma are difficult to miss.

I’ve kept the most striking parallel for last. In the Phaedrus, Plato compares the soul to a chariot with a charioteer and two winged horses. The divine chariot has two tame horses, while the human chariot has one tame horse and one unruly one, making the charioteer’s ascent towards truth a constant struggle. The Katha Upanishad reaches for the very same image. This time, the body is the chariot, the Atman or true self its lord, reason the charioteer, the mind the reins, and the senses the horses. A person without understanding is ‘like a bad driver with wild horses’.

Stoicism

Centuries later, the Stoics, who were influenced by Plato, would once again develop ideas that seem remarkably close to Indian philosophy—especially, this time, Buddhism.

Both traditions warn against attachment and the tyranny of desire; both seek freedom by changing our relation to events rather than controlling events themselves; and both loosen the boundary between self and others in favour of a wider identification with humanity—or even with life as a whole.

In both East and West, then, philosophy could mean something much more demanding than thinking clearly or holding the right opinions. It was a discipline of the self: a way of transforming consciousness and attaining freedom.

Over time, however, philosophy and spiritual practice drifted apart in the West, while in India they remained more closely entwined. The Western tradition retained much from Pythagoras, Parmenides, Plato, and the Stoics—mathematics, logic, metaphysics, rational argument—but gradually lost much of their conception of philosophy as a spiritual practice and path to liberation.

The great difference between Eastern and Western philosophy may therefore lie not so much in how they began, but in what happened to them afterwards.

Had that other strand prevailed, the division we now draw between ‘Eastern’ and ‘Western’ philosophy might look very different.

Perhaps the Western mind did take an Eastern turn. It just didn’t stay the course.

Continue Exploring

If this essay spoke to you, you might look into Indian Mythology and Philosophy and The Gang of Three: Socrates, Plato, Aristotle.

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