Under Ajivika doctrine, the idea that every event—from birth to death, joy to suffering—is strictly ordained by niyati (fate) ripples through its entire ethical fabric. Moral effort isn’t about freely choosing between right and wrong; it’s simply playing out a script already written in the cosmic ledger. At the end of the day, personal virtue or vice isn’t credit or blame in anyone’s hands, but a predetermined turn of the wheel.

Still, this doesn’t translate into moral anarchy. Far from it. Ajivikas embraced rigorous asceticism—enduring cold, hunger, pain—because that too was their destined role, a sort of spiritual housekeeping to keep karma’s machinery running smoothly. Acts of non-violence (ahimsa) and self-restraint were practiced less as conscious ethical choices and more as the inevitable unfolding of fate. In a way, it’s reminiscent of modern debates over artificial intelligence: if a neural network is programmed to “choose” compassion, who’s responsible for its output? The programmer? The algorithm? Ajivikas would sidestep the question—everything simply happens as it must.

This stance had a consoling edge. When illness or injustice cropped up, there was no moral tally to keep or assign. Suffering wasn’t punishment; it was just destiny knocking at the door. That outlook fostered a kind of serene acceptance—an ancient precursor to today’s mindfulness movements, minus the notion of self-directed improvement. Imagine riding a wave rather than steering the surfboard: all the thrill of existence without the weight of “should’ve” or “could’ve.”

In the grand tapestry of early Indian thought, Ajivika determinism offered a stark counterpoint to the Buddhist emphasis on personal karma and Jain insistence on individual effort. Its ethical teaching rested on the surprising comfort that comes when everything is truly out of one’s hands—call it destiny, call it fate, but honesty demands admitting there’s no one to blame.