A sudden flash of insight at sixteen plunged Ramana Maharshi into a death-like stillness, and from that moment onward, everything became an inward journey. Settling at the foot of Arunachala hill, silence became his closest companion. Rather than diving into elaborate rituals or sacred texts, attention simply turned toward the sense “I.” Whenever a thought arose—about the body, the world, or even enlightenment—the question “Who am I?” was used as a gentle probe, like shining a flashlight into the deepest corner of the mind.

Whenever visitors poured in, eager for techniques, the answer never strayed from that single thread: trace the “I”-thought back to its source. A thought about “me” isn’t the real “me”; it’s a ripple on the surface. Peeling back those ripples meant noticing where the “I”-feeling first appears, then watching it dissolve in its own spotlight. Over decades, sitting in quietude under banyan trees or within the ashram’s simple halls, every pause, every breath, became an invitation to inquire.

No elaborate ceremonies, no long commentaries—just unwavering attention to the root of self-awareness. In today’s world, where apps promise five-minute awakenings, this practice still cuts to the chase: meet the sense of “I” directly, and everything else unwinds naturally. By keeping it simple and steady, the heart of Ramana’s way reveals itself: self-inquiry isn’t a technique to be mastered, but a living question to be held until reality answers.