Madurai, 1896. A sudden, total fear of death. Instead of running from it, he lay down and went through it — stiffened his limbs, held his breath, asked what dies. The body, yes. But the one aware of the body? That did not go anywhere. The fear left and never came back. Nothing had been taught. Something had been seen.

Weeks later he left a note — "I have gone in search of my Father" — and took a train to the mountain Arunachala, which he had heard named once as a boy and never forgotten. He would not leave it for the rest of his life.

For years he barely spoke, sat in temples and caves, was fed by others, was bitten by insects, was mistaken for a madman. People began to come and sit near him. They found that sitting near him was itself the teaching. The silence was not withholding. It was the answer, before the question.

When he did speak, he gave one instruction, endlessly: ask who am I? Not as philosophy — as a hunt. Follow every thought back to the one who is thinking it. Follow the "I" to its source. What you find there is what you were looking for with the thought.

Cancer in the arm. Devotees wept and asked him not to leave. "Where can I go? I am here." The body stopped in April 1950. Many who were there said they saw a bright light cross the sky. The question he left is still being asked by people who never met him, in exactly the words he gave.