Born and raised in Bombay’s teeming Byculla district, a simple shopkeeper found himself at the edge of something far bigger than peanuts and spices. In his mid-thirties, grief over a close friend’s death drove him to Sri Siddharameshwar Maharaj’s satsangs. That first encounter, sparking an inner shift, was less like meeting a guru and more like rediscovering a home he never knew he’d lost.

For years afterward, life carried on as usual: the shop stayed open, bills were paid, and the world rushed by. Behind the counter, though, the shopkeeper—now steeped in Siddharameshwar’s teachings—quietly observed the unchanging Self. No sermons, no posters on the wall—just the stillness that comes when the “I Am” reveals itself. Neighbors, initially curious about his calm in the chaos, began dropping by not for peanuts but for presence.

Word-of-mouth spread, first through Bombay’s close-knit streets and later across oceans. A chance visitor—drawn by an unspoken invitation—jotted down questions and answers. By the mid-1970s, those notes had blossomed into I Am That, carried far beyond India’s shores at a time when Western seekers were feeling their own spiritual itch. The crisp dialogues, stripped of ceremony, felt like sitting under a banyan tree, listening to someone who refused to sugarcoat reality.

Despite growing fame, there was never a formal stint as guru: no stage, no hierarchy. Teachings flowed wherever he stood—sometimes at dawn, sometimes late at night, even behind the shop counter. Each teaching wasn’t packaged as doctrine but offered as a mirror: “Who are you, before the mind steps in?”

By the time the world caught on, that unassuming shopkeeper had become a teacher whose influence rippled through the global nondual movement. Just as salt dissolves in water, his guidance melted boundaries—inviting everyone to taste the timeless “I Am” that lurks beneath everyday life.