Most of this text was written by Vijay years ago,

but he is no longer there.


The author improved on his work here and there, completed the unfinished chapters and reorganized the material that Vijay had gathered to make it more accessible to the reader.

We lived in the same body until recently, then he …”died” is not quite the right word; let’s say…he gradually became the author.


As the fairytales begin, once upon a time…there was someone called Vijay, the author knew him much better than he knew himself.

His very first childhood’s memory when he was four or five years old was in the kindergarten: he was looking at little bodies running, playing, crying, shouting, etc, asking himself what he was doing there, who he was, where he came for, which so strangely could not remember –

he kept looking at his hands, at his body wondering why he was trapped inside it, asking himself:


What is all this? What am I doing here?



He wasted most of his first twenty-two years in worldly pursuits, strange adventures, impossible dreams, writing bad poems and even worse novels, but finally learned about the essential truths from various Teachers and scriptures.

The Upanishads and the Vedas touched him most and so did Rumi and Zen, but eventually found the Teachers meant for him, Sri Aurobindo and Mère.


So what about the author?


Ha ha ha ha!

What would you like to know?


How could any information about him help you?


It would only influence, give a subtle hue

to what you read.


He can only tell you with Nisargadatta Maharaj’s words:


“I am I outside time, I have no form…I am all this manifestation…

that I live in a human or any other form

makes no difference at all.”


His attitude is similar to the one of Babajiwhen He said:

“I am Bhole Baba (The Simple Father), I am nothing and nobody,

I am just a mirror in which you can see yourself.


It is also similar to the one of Rumi:


Study me as much as you like,

you will not know me,

for I differ in a hundred ways

from what you see me to be.


Put yourself behind my eyes

and see me as I see myself,

I have chosen to dwell

in a place you cannot see.


As Wu Hsin said,


Be not concerned

with the personage of Wu Hsin,

his habits and behaviors.


Rather that placing the focus on the personage,

it is preferable to attend to the teaching.

Teachers will go, whereas

teachings remain.


When someone asked Ajahn Chah:

“How old are you? Do you live here all year round?”
He replied:


I live nowhere. There is no place you can find me. I have no age.

To have age, you must exist, and to think that

you exist is already a problem.


The author would answer more or less in the same way, or say with Rumi’s words:


Even with my feet upon it and the postman knowing my doormy address is somewhere else.


I do not exist, am not an entity from this world or the next,

did not descent from Adam and Eve or any origin story.

Placeless is my place, a trace of the traceless;

neither body nor soul am I,


to the Beloved I belong.


The author still lives in the same body that he used to share with Vijay and is more at ease in it without him.

Like Vijay wrote in the final page of his last journal:


“On the surface not much appears to have changed, and yet

nothing is anymore the same.


There are no words yet in our language to explain it better.

I feel like I am emerging at last from such a deep abyss, and only recently I have realized how deeply all the terrible and wonderful things that I experienced in my life have changed me;


it is a bit like I had died and only now am beginning

to be reborn as another.


Another but WHO?

Similar dissociations had I known before when I gave up the identifications with my self-image as a philosopher, a revolutionary, a Flower Child, a Yogi, etc, but right now


hardly anything seems to be left

that I can truly call myself.”


What will happen know?
Inshallah, Inshallah….let Thy will be done.


Mère, Mère, I am one of Your children; I am in Your hands,

do will me what You want…”


These were his very last words.

But now only something like a vague afterimage of Vijay is left in the brain we used to share.


Who is the author then?


Well, everyone still calls him Vijay, unaware that he is no longer in the body they knew, and anyhow the author has no name of his own.


We both have written this text.


As Ramana Maharshi said,


Within the prison of your world appears a man who tells you that the world

of painful contradictions which you have created is neither continuous

nor permanent, and is based on a misapprehension.


He pleads with you to get out of it just like you got into it: you got into it

by forgetting what you are and must get out of it

by knowing yourself as you are.

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