RAMANA REFLECTIONS
Over the decades devotees have complained about the difficulty in practising vichara—Sri Bhagavan’s method of self-inquiry. They say that when they attempt inquiry their questioning soon becomes mechanical and dry. The effort to investigate the nature of the “I” loses vitality, and they abandon the practice out of boredom or frustration. This is perhaps the most commonly cited reason for not practising vichara.
What can be done?
The first step is to find a way to make inquiry engaging and meaningful. If we begin by honestly acknowledging that we do not know who or what this “I” is—though whatever we think, say, and do refers to it—then curiosity naturally arises. Discovering that the most familiar word in our vocabulary refers to something we cannot clearly identify should give us pause.
Bhagavan repeatedly points out that the sense of individuality is not what we assume it to be:
The ‘I’-thought is the first thought of the mind. When the inquiry ‘Who am I?’ is persistently pursued, all other thoughts disappear, and finally, the ‘I’-thought itself vanishes.[1]
Everything we do revolves around this mysterious “I.” Yet when we attempt to locate it directly, it proves strangely elusive. Bhagavan therefore urges the seeker to examine it more closely:
When the mind turns inward seeking “Who am I?” and merges in the Heart, the “I” lowers its head in shame and the true “I” appears as Itself. [2]
The fact is simple yet unsettling. Either we believe that the one we regularly refer to and call “I” exists—or it does not. If we believe it exists, then we are burdened with being at odds with Bhagavan’s own testimony. If Bhagavan was mistaken about the illusory nature of the separate self, then we will want to show how that could be possible. If, on the other hand, we accept Bhagavan’s words in respect of the illusory nature of the separate self, then we need to explain how we would continue to live, act, think, and speak as though this small “I” were real.
A paradox lies at the heart of our existence. If we take it seriously, it should provoke in us a certain unease. How can we go on living while holding this contradiction at the centre of our lives?
There is a usefulness in this otherwise uncomfortable incongruity, namely, that it helps us become interested in the practice Bhagavan gave us. Generating such interest is what the ancients called cultivating the doubt sensation.[3]
What does this phrase mean?
It means, first of all, acknowledging we have a problem. We do not know who or what we are, and yet, we proceed moment by moment as though we did. When seen clearly, this is astonishing. If we are honest, we recognize that we are living a kind of unexamined assumption—perhaps even a subtle falsehood. At the centre of our life stands an unquestioned identity. Living a shadow existence, out of touch with our basic nature moment to moment—who would not want to unravel this puzzle? Sri Muruganar’s verse highlights the urgency of the task:
The ego is a formless phantom that arises by grasping form. If sought, it disappears; if ignored, it thrives.[4]
When we allow ourselves to remain open to this paradox, a certain ambivalence naturally arises. We begin to see that we have been living outwardly, disconnected from the Heart. How did we fail to notice this earlier?
Self-inquiry exposes the gap between the intentions we imagine guide our lives and the deeper motivations actually operating beneath the surfaces of the conscious mind. The practice highlights the conflict underlying our inner life.
Here true vichara begins. What first appeared dull or mechanical begins to reveal itself as deeply intriguing. Time-honoured, questioning stimulates perplexity in the sadhaka because this ‘I’ is the ultimate mystery. Perplexity, a right-hemisphere function, is at odds with conceptual knowing, a left hemisphere function. Perplexity is the aimed-for because it inverts the literalism of the ego and helps us overcome the illusion that egoic knowledge can help us.
On a mundane level, consider the experience of losing our house key. Searching for it is not boring because we must find it. After all, without the key we cannot leave the house. The urgency of the situation naturally energizes the search.
A more powerful analogy might be that of a missing child.
Imagine a family walking in a forest reserve on a Sunday outing. Toward evening they suddenly realize their young daughter has wandered away. The forest is thick, and darkness is approaching. Panic sets in. The family calls out the girl’s name again and again at full volume, but the trees swallow up their earnest cries.
Among the family members is the child’s mother who listens differently. Though her ears are no sharper than anyone else’s, she listens with her entire being. Her attention becomes utterly focused. By the sincerity and intensity of her love she senses where the child must be—and finally finds her.
Looking for the missing “I” requires the same kind of listening. Ordinary faculties—eyes, ears, imagination, intellect and the ruminative mind—cannot discover it. The thick forest of conditioning and mental habit separates us from the Heart. Only the kind of listening born of sincerity can reveal the way.
In the search within, however, there is no lost child apart from the seeker herself. The task is not to discover where this little “I” is hiding, but to discover that it is not there at all.
Such a search requires a thorough investigation. Yet the greatest challenge lies elsewhere. As we begin looking inward, we encounter forgotten impressions, unresolved emotions, and buried memories—“orphaned children of the Heart” that have long been ignored.
Such encounters are unsettling, even terrifying.
At this stage, practitioners may become discouraged and ask whether there might be an easier path. Bhagavan is clear:
Other than inquiry, there are no other adequate means for making the mind quiescent.[5]
Intangibility
Bhagavan is communicating something essential: genuine progress requires inwardness. He tells us we are mistaken if we imagine we can make progress in the religious life without examining the source of the “I”.
Inquiry is the name we give to this inward turning. But the mind resists it. By its nature, the mind thrives on outward activities—thoughts, plans, opinions, endless commentary and chatter. What it does not enjoy is the suspension of thought. This is why devotees starting out with inquiry practice like to imagine that inwardness only means looking at the contents of the mind—its stories, thoughts and ideas. But the contents of the mind are just objects of the sense realm, after all, the mind door belongs to the form-world—created, conditioned and external.
So then, what is true inwardness?
It is the realm of the Heart below the thinking mind and its objects. This is where Bhagavan is directing us.
Self-inquiry turns the mind back upon itself. Instead of allowing thought to roam outward toward mind objects, inquiry demands that the mind examine its own source. Bhagavan explains the method with great simplicity:
Whenever thoughts arise, do not follow them. Ask instead, ‘To whom has this thought arisen?’ [6]
The mind finds this work uncomfortable because it deprives it of its favourite occupation. Inquiry halts the habitual processes of analysing, labelling, remembering, worrying, reverie, and storytelling. In truth, the mind is our playground of distraction which protects us from the unsettling state of not-knowing.
But why should not-knowing be frightening?
Because it exposes everything that has been pushed down into the depths of the Heart. When inquiry suspends the mind’s outward movement, these hidden layers become visible.
A grief moment arises when we see that the world we have been inhabiting is only a surface reality. A deeper dimension of being—the life of the Heart—has gone largely unnoticed all of our lives. With this recognition comes a quiet lament—the years spent in deflection, distraction, and avoidance.
The temptation may arise to abandon inquiry altogether. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak[7], so it is said. Turning away seems easier than taking responsibility. We console ourselves: perhaps my life rests on an illusion but at least it’s a comfortable illusion. This is how the familiar patterns of neurosis appear safer than stepping into the unknown.
Samskaras
At this juncture, the true potential of vichara can reveal itself. Inquiry asks us to probe the made-up self and to become intimate with all that undergirds it. Vichara is the means by which we overcome our dissociation.
But what exactly are we dissociating from?
From the samskaras. Indeed, samskaras may be understood as dissociation itself, i.e. fragments of experience that have been exiled from conscious awareness.
If the ego serves as a stand-in for the inner life, we may be cut-off from our surroundings, may feel detached, as if watching a movie of our lives from the outside. Taking this ghost realm as reality, we have ever failed to notice how our misery is rooted in the alienation from the life within.
We may think of samskaras as “reactivity”. Samskaras arise from the resistance to the conditions of daily life. We grasp at what we want, and push away what we do not want. Born of preferences, this non-stop karma-producing habit sets up the barrier between the made-up “I” and the Heart below. When we figure out how to greet WHAT IS on its own terms, when we are able to observe our difficulties without angling for a preferred set of outcomes, then an important threshold will have been crossed, Bhagavan tells us.
Since samskaras thrive in concealment, the moment they are brought into the light of awareness, their destructive power is reduced. If we overcome our reactivity completely, no new samskaras can arise; and if we mend the existing samskaras, the path will likely lead in one direction, namely, to the gradual attrition of the illusory notion of a separate self. This is the intended purpose of vichara. Bhagavan comments:
A struggle is kept up between [an inner] spiritual force and innate samskaras, until the latter are destroyed. [Then,] the soul is led into the Heart to rest forever in peace.[8]
We sometimes imagine that we do not need meditation or vichara practice but only need to know about them. Once in possession of the map, we imagine there is nothing more to be done. But knowledge about how to cross the barrier only has value if we put it into practise.
Knowledge as an attainment—a shiny object to possess and revere—is a form of delusion. Conversely, imagining that we do not need the map at all but can just practice meditation and vichara blindly is likewise mistaken. A vital vichara practise requires understanding the lay of the land within, as well as cultivating the intense longing to look vigorously within.
Had our suffering been consciously engaged with from the beginning, it would not have hardened into these deeply embedded patterns of separation.
This is why Bhagavan insists that suffering is the way.[9] What he points to is not suffering for its own sake but the necessity of turning toward discomfort. To engage with what is painful is to re-associate with what has been exiled.
By becoming familiar with inner residues—and by allowing ourselves to register the discomfort they evoke—their hold on us is loosened. This is the subtle and inscrutable function of vichara: through direct encounter, it exposes the mechanisms of avoidance and gently heals the wounds they cover over.
Meditation
When Bhagavan says that meditation is the expulsion of thoughts,[10] we might ask why thoughts need to be expelled? Because they function as the vanguard of our dissociation. Shielding us from unprocessed material within, our thoughts serve as substitutes for the life of the neglected Heart, keeping us safe—as it were—from the pain of karmic afflictions.
Bhagavan asks us to relinquish the comfort of distraction in order to make friends with our suffering. Yet, even here, discomfort is not the most challenging feature of inquiry practise. More unsettling is the fear of relinquishing the status quo—the identity we have come to depend on.
If inquiry dissolves the sense of a solid “me”, then it may feel like the ground beneath us were giving way. From the standpoint of the ego, this feels like death. From the standpoint of wisdom, it is the beginning of freedom.
As the path unfolds, we learn to encounter internal “sticking points” with patience and care. No need to force things. Rather, we gently accompany our fragile psyches into shadowy areas, slowly becoming acquainted with a hidden terrain.
We observe reflexes such as the impulse to withdraw or distract. We compassionately nudge ourselves forward, recognising that the aim is not necessarily dismantling ego all at once but gradually allowing its hold on us to be diminished.
At the heart of this work is a willingness to be at ease with not-knowing. When we understand that we do not know what this “I” is—or where it can be found—our inquiry takes on a new intensity, like that of the mother searching for her lost child.
As thoughts arise, the mind attempts to reassert its habitual patterns. But we need not follow them. We just keep looking as if searching were the only thing that mattered.
Here we become who-idiots. Enthralled by what-we-know-not, the sound of who begins to echo in our Heart as if it were the only thing there is. We know who is a mystery but we also know that the solution does not lay in finding something. Rather, by maintaining the sense of uncertainty, we are made ready for something altogether new to enter in. As we focus inwardly with a felt sense of seeking, the awareness becomes ever more subtle. Bhagavan gives us his assurance:
With repeated practice in this manner, the mind will develop the skill to stay in its source.[11]
As the identification with thought loosens, something begins to shift. The boredom that once plagued our inquiry reveals itself as restlessness. As our resistances moderate, our inward gaze becomes vibrant and quietly compelling.
Conclusion
Cultivating the doubt sensation means, first of all, appreciating the poignancy of life, i.e. the certainty of death and the uncertainty of the time of death. We recognise that there is something we must do and yet do not know exactly how to go about it.
Staying close to the doubt sensation propels us ever further within through questioning. As we get more familiar with the inner domain, we cease to be thrown off balance by what arises. The phantom “I” begins to lose its solidity and with it, our investment in the mind’s aimless stirrings. Increasingly, we find ourselves content just to rest in a simple, nameless awareness.
Bhagavan’s inquiry is thus no longer a dry technique but the royal road to the Heart. What once appeared dull and mechanical turns out to be the portal to the ground of our being.
The journey of inquiry is thus not an aimless excursion into the realm of phantoms but a long-sought return to the place of origin—the Heart—our True Home. —
References and Footnotes
[1] Who Am I? §8.
[2] Ulladu Narpadu, v. 30.
[3] For example, meditation monks of Tang period China.
[4] Guru Vachaka Kovai, §25.
[5] Who Am I? §12.
[6] Ibid., §12
[7] Matthew 26:41.
[8] Talks, §247, 8th September, 1936.
[9] Talks, §107, 29th November 1935
[10] Talks, §452, 7th February 1938.
[11] Ibid. §12.
