Ego, in I Am That, shows up as the chatterbox insisting, “This is who I am.” Maharaj likens it to a shadow that seems real until the light of pure awareness shines on it. Rather than dismissing ego as some villain, the dialogues invite peeling back its layers—name, profession, memories—until what remains is the unshakable sense of “I Am.”

Each exchange nudges listeners toward a simple yet radical inquiry: who’s speaking when the mind is silent? Ask that question long enough, and the ego’s self-importance starts to wobble. Just like today’s social-media culture, where identity is curated in bite-sized posts for instant likes, the ego in these pages craves affirmation. Maharaj points out that chasing those dopamine hits only cements the boundary between “self” and “other.”

Still, the book isn’t a finger-wagging moral tale. It’s more like a friend handing over a mirror, whispering, “Notice this.” By staying present with the sense of “I am,” the ego—or the false “I”—loses its grip. Compare it to modern mindfulness apps: they teach pausing the mind, but here the pause itself reveals the field in which thoughts arise.

In a world buzzing about AI personas and virtual avatars, Maharaj’s message feels eerily up-to-date. The true Self isn’t an algorithm or a profile picture; it’s that ever-present awareness beyond the masks. When the ego tries to stake its claim, a gentle return to the sense of being simply “here” dissolves the drama. No grand fireworks needed—just the steady uncovering of what’s always been right under the nose.