There were once two seekers who went to the forest to practise great discipline. Their names were Vamadeva and Pundarika.

Vamadeva sat himself down at a busy crossing of forest paths, where traders and pilgrims passed all day. He fasted, he held his arms up, he sat very straight — but only when someone was looking. Each time a crowd gathered, his back grew straighter and his face grew more solemn. "See the great holy man," people whispered, and Vamadeva drank in every word.

When the paths emptied, though, something odd happened. Vamadeva's arms came down. He nibbled food from a hidden pouch. He fidgeted and yawned and watched the path, waiting for the next audience. His discipline came and went like a flag in a gusty wind — up when watched, down when alone.

Pundarika, meanwhile, had walked deep into the quiet forest where no path ran at all. No one ever passed. No one ever praised him. He simply kept his small practice, the same whether the sun rose or set, the same whether anyone came or not.

Months later a wandering teacher visited both.

At the crossing, he found Vamadeva exhausted and cross. The crowds had thinned that week, and without their eyes on him, his great discipline had crumbled to almost nothing. "I have practised so hard," Vamadeva complained, "yet I feel no peace."

"You did not practise for the practice," the teacher said gently. "You practised for the watching eyes. So the moment the eyes left, your effort fell down. Discipline built on praise is like a tower built on the wind — tall for a moment, then gone."

Then he walked into the deep forest and found Pundarika, calm and steady, practising for no audience at all.

"And here," said the teacher, "is discipline that stands. Not because it is grand, but because it does not need anyone to be watching."