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| Ramana |
Prologue
There is a certain kind of statement that makes the heart flinch — not with anger, but with a quiet sadness. It often comes cloaked in spiritual language, so soft and refined that one barely notices the thorns underneath.
“From infancy, I was ego-free, desire-free, plan-free and carefree.”
— Alfred Sorensen, Dancing with the Void
At first glance, it sounds poetic. Even humble, in a whimsical way. But if one has truly sat at the feet of silence — if one has been cracked open by the presence of a jñānī like Bhagavan Ramana — such words begin to ring hollow.
Alfred Sorensen, later known as Sunyata, visited Sri Ramana Maharshi between 1936 and 1946. In his manuscript The Nectar of Sunyata, he writes that Ramana recognized him at first sight as “one of the rare-born mystics,” and that later, in meditation, he inwardly received the phrase:
“We are always aware, Sunyata.”
He took these words to be his name, his mantra, and his confirmation.
But something feels off.
No mention of this exchange appears in Talks with Ramana Maharshi, Day by Day, Nagamma’s Letters, or any of the deeply personal accounts left behind by Ramana’s closest disciples — Annamalai Swami, Balaram Reddy, Devaraja Mudaliar, Chadwick, Subbaramayya, Muruganar, Kunju Swami etc.
None of them — despite decades of intimate service — were ever called “rare-born mystics.”
Even Muruganar, whose poetry Bhagavan himself preserved with love, was never given a title. Even Annamalai Swami, who built much of the Ashram with his own hands, was not named “realized.” In fact, Ramana dismantled every attempt to name, rank, or glorify — not out of coldness, but out of a radical unwillingness to give the ego anything to cling to.
To be “recognized” as a mystic — to receive a special name and a secret mantra — is not just out of character.
It is completely against the spirit of Ramana.
One cannot imagine Bhagavan whispering, “You are one of the rare-born mystics,” when he wouldn’t even say, “You are a jñānī.”
Even saying “I have known the Self” was something he cautioned against.
So we must ask:
Who remembers being ego-free?
Who receives and retains a personal mantra from silence?
Who feels the need to tell this story — and why?
Ramana’s Silence and the Gentle Laughter of the Realized
Ramana Maharshi did not initiate people with names.
He did not give titles, did not praise awakening, and never built a mythology around anyone’s experience — including his own.
When asked if he was a jñānī, he smiled.
When told others had become enlightened, he raised a brow, or more often, said nothing.
Those closest to him — Annamalai Swami, Balaram Reddy, Muruganar, Chadwick, Subbaramayya etc.— never received secret designations.
Instead, they were fed the quiet bread of ego-death.
And they were grateful for it.
Let's take an example of Annamalai Swami: he had lived at Ramana’s feet for over a decade, served him, been broken by him, and finally absorbed into the formless silence.
No mantra. No proclamation.
Just the gradual crumbling of identity until only the Self remained — unspeakable, unnamed.
So when someone says, “I was ego-free from infancy,” or “I was recognized as a rare-born mystic,” one cannot help but hear the sound of a mask being put back on.
Even if that mask is made of golden cloth and stitched with the word “void.”
Ramana did not destroy the ego to replace it with a new role.
He incinerated the actor — and left only the stage, empty, radiant.
And those who truly dissolved in his gaze do not speak from memory.
They do not recall the moment they “became That.”
They do not make timelines of awakening.
Because what they became had no beginning.
And what vanished in them has no voice to tell the tale.
The Myth-Making Temptation
There is a strange, almost poetic temptation that arises once one has glimpsed the edge of the Self.
It does not scream. It whispers.
Not “I am someone,” but — worse — “I am no one, and let me tell you all about it.”
This is the ego’s final veil — not the craving for wealth or status, but the subtle itch to be seen as one who has gone beyond all cravings.
A longing to be recognized not as a person, but as a Presence.
And so, it begins:
“I was always ego-free.”
“I was given a secret name.”
“I was recognized as a rare-born mystic.”
“I exploded into the Self in 1982, and the awareness never left.”
These claims are not shouted. They are delivered in soft, musical tones, often wrapped in flowing robes and benevolent smiles.
But they still come from someone.
And that someone is the problem.
In contrast, those who truly fell into the fire of Ramana’s gaze came out with nothing left to decorate.
No story, no date, no title.
Even after realization, Annamalai Swami lived in silence.
He did not write books about his journey.
He did not offer interviews.
He did not build a mystic persona.
When seekers asked about their own “awakening experiences,” he would smile and say:
“You are already That. There is nothing to say about it.”
This is why the "Sunyata story" feels off.
Not because he was malicious, or insincere.
But because the presence of a narrator still lingers.
The storyteller is still alive — and he speaks of his freedom.
But the Self has no story.
And freedom does not speak of itself.
Why the Truly Realized Don’t Go Near Performers
Annamalai Swami lived long after Ramana's passing.
So did Balaram Reddy, Kunju Swami, Chadwick, Lakshmana Sharma, and many others from the inner circle of Bhagavan’s disciples — those who had lived, served, and dissolved quietly at his feet.
And yet — Sunyata (Alfred Sorensen), who visited Bhagavan several times in the 1930s and 40s, never sought them out.
Not one.
He had the time. He had the freedom. He certainly had the reputation.
But he never returned to sit with those who had lived in the furnace of Ramana’s presence.
Why?
Because even if he didn’t fully realize it —
some part of him knew.
He knew that if he came before Annamalai Swami, or Kunju Swami, or Balaram Reddiar and said:
“From infancy I was ego-free, desire-free, plan-free, and carefree,”
he would be met not with criticism —
but with something far more devastating:
a simple, radiant laughter.
Not a rebuke.
Not a correction.
Just a soft laugh — the same kind Annamalai Swami gave when a seeker claimed they had realized the Self in 1982:
“If someone says, ‘I know myself’ or ‘I don’t know myself’ — it is something to laugh at. Because you are That. You can be That, but there is nothing to say about it.”
That laughter is not cruel.
It is liberating — if one is ready.
But if one is still clinging, even tenderly, to the role of “one who is free” — then that smile will burn the entire performance to ash.
This is why those who still wear the mystic’s robe —
even if it is woven from words like “Void,” “Awareness,” or “Namelessness” —
do not go near the ones who are truly free.
Because in their presence,
the mask will not be torn off.
It will simply fall —
because there is nothing left to hold it in place.
The Question That Burns the Whole Structure
In the end, it all comes down to one question — the one Ramana never stopped pointing toward:
Who is claiming this?
Who says they were ego-free from birth?
Who remembers a secret mantra whispered in silence?
Who proclaims they exploded into the Self — and, somehow, survived to tell the story?
Who is that voice?
The claim “I am realized” is not different from “I am bound.”
Both belong to someone.
And That which is free has no one to speak it.
Ramana never said, “I realized the Self.”
He simply became what cannot be narrated.
Even when pressed to confirm realization, he would smile —
not with smugness, but with the gentle silence of one who knows there is no one left to affirm or deny.
Those who truly realize do not remember a moment of awakening.
They do not frame their past in the language of destiny or mystic privilege.
They do not drape themselves in the language of Self to keep a subtle “me” alive.
Because realization is not an upgrade.
It is not a role.
It is the erasure of all need to play a role at all.
And so again the question:
Who is claiming this?
Ask it sincerely.
Ask it with your whole being.
Ask it until there is no one left to answer.
That is the only explosion worth having —
the one in which even the one who says “I was always free” disappears like mist in mountain light.
The Ones Who Never Spoke
There are those who spoke much about realization.
And there are those who became silence.
No titles.
No timelines.
No talk of being born free.
Only a soft, dissolving presence — like incense that leaves no ash.
Annamalai Swami lived in a small hut, answered questions with precision, and returned to his own silence.
Balaram Reddy spoke little, loved deeply, and never wore any label.
Muruganar, whose verses flowed like Ganga, hid his own experience behind devotion.
Kunju Swami, Subbaramayya, Chadwick — each of them walked off the stage quietly, without turning around.
Even Ramana Maharshi — around whom these beings bloomed — refused the title of guru.
He said only:
“The guru is the Self.”
They never said: “I realized That in 1896.”
They never said: “I was born without ego.”
They simply lived as no one.
And in that emptiness, the entire sky shone.
These are the ones I bow to.
The ones I trust.
Not because they claimed freedom,
but because they forgot to claim anything at all.
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