[Swami Yuktananda of Benares (late nineteenth century) apparently taught this method of self-enquiry. I don't know if there is any historical connection between this method and Ramana's "Who am I?" enquiry but perhaps before the answer to "Who am I?" can be realised it might be helpful to identify where exactly this "I" is. The following few lines are a result of this enquiry.]
| Where am I? |
| Where is this I-ness? |
| A makeshift answer is "In the Universe." |
| But this I-ness is in its I-ness |
| And the Universe is in this. |
| I sulk because you are not here. |
| Or is it you that's sulking? |
| I know I don't pay you enough attention. |
| At an early age I wanted to solve the God question: |
| "Are you there? |
| If you are then prove it: |
| Grant me a new tricycle by tomorrow morning." |
| You let me down, I'm afraid. |
| But I keep wanting to give you another chance |
| Because I know you're there. |
| I've given up on novels. |
| I'd rather read the moment. |
| What does it have to say right Here and Now? |
| - Usually it's not good news. |
| In fact, it's usually uncomfortable. |
| But maybe I'm still not properly acknowledging the moment. |
| Acknowledge? As one entity does to another? |
| No. |
| Bowing down in true submission |
| Until my nothingness is apparent |
| And there is only the moment. |
| Not having got used to being born, |
| Wondering why there's Something and not Nothing, |
| I consider my relationship with the Universe. |
| I'm like an old man with a pretty young bride, |
| Yet I pay her no attention. |
| I'm caught up in my shrivelled machinations. |
| Why shrivelled? |
| There's an evil mother-in-law I'm afraid. |
| Her cold reptilian brutality knows no limits |
| In either potential or actuality: |
| "The terror of the situation", |
| Mother Kali. |
| The body is a loaded gun, |
| Cocked and ready to fire. |
| To shrink from this - to shrivel - is natural. |
| It's possible to fly in the face of this. |
| To skip and laugh. Be truly mad. |
| Embrace discomfort, eschew cosiness. |
| - it's a romantic picture. |
| The trick is not to collapse in self-indulgence. |
| I remember when the sea once spoke to me |
| With mythic murmurings from concealed vastnesses |
| Its chaos and endless rhythms spawning life |
| And who knows what else…. |
| Cast up on the shore like a pebble to bake in the sun |
| We're not quite abandoned |
| As it envelopes all our senses. |
| It's our consciousness writ large. |