Nisargadatta Maharaj

A barely literate cigarette seller in a Bombay slum became one of the twentieth century's most uncompromising teachers of Advaita Vedanta, pointing thousands of seekers toward the recognition that preceded all their seeking. Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj taught from a cramped loft above his tiny shop, chain-smoking bidis while demolishing every concept his visitors brought to him, including their most cherished spiritual ideas. His teaching was radical simplicity itself: You are not what you think you are. You are the awareness in which all experience appears.

Brief Chronology

Born Maruti Shivrampant Kambli in 1897 in rural Maharashtra, he received minimal formal education and worked various jobs before opening a small shop selling bidis (Indian cigarettes) and household goods in Bombay's Khetwadi neighborhood. In 1933, at age 36, he met his guru Siddharameshwar Maharaj of the Navnath Sampradaya lineage and received initiation. After his guru's death in 1936, Nisargadatta briefly attempted renunciation but returned to family life and his shop, where he would teach for the next four decades. His teachings reached the West through the 1973 publication of I Am That, a collection of dialogues translated by Maurice Frydman. He continued teaching until shortly before his death from throat cancer in 1981, never leaving his modest neighborhood or seeking followers.

The Shopkeeper's Hunger

Maruti Kambli's early life offered no hint of spiritual destiny. Born into a poor Brahmin family, he received perhaps four years of schooling before economic necessity sent him to work. He tried his hand at various trades—office clerk, farm laborer—before settling into the life of a small shopkeeper in Bombay's crowded lanes. He married, had children, struggled to make ends meet. By all appearances, he was simply another face in the teeming masses of colonial India's largest city.

But something gnawed at him. Not the refined philosophical questions of the educated classes, but a raw, urgent need to understand what this life was actually about. Why this suffering? What was the point of this endless cycle of desire and disappointment? The questions weren't intellectual curiosities—they were existential wounds that wouldn't heal.

When a friend took him to meet Siddharameshwar Maharaj in 1933, Maruti was 36 years old and desperate for something real. Siddharameshwar was a teacher in the Navnath tradition, a lineage of radical non-dualism that traced itself back to the legendary nine masters (naths) of medieval India. The tradition emphasized direct realization over scriptural study, making it accessible to those without formal education.

At their first meeting, Siddharameshwar gave Maruti a simple instruction: Focus on the sense of "I am"—not the "I am this" or "I am that," but the bare feeling of being, of presence, before any identification. He was to meditate on this sense of existence itself, this fundamental awareness of being alive, and stay with it until he discovered what lay beyond even that.

Maruti took the instruction with the intensity of a drowning man grabbing a rope. He practiced with ferocious dedication, sitting in meditation whenever his shop duties allowed, holding onto that sense of "I am" with single-pointed focus. His guru gave him a new name—Nisargadatta, meaning "naturally given" or "dwelling in the natural state"—though he would continue to be known simply as Maruti to his neighbors.

The Death That Wasn't

Three years after their meeting, Siddharameshwar Maharaj died. Nisargadatta was devastated. He had found the one person who seemed to understand what he was seeking, and now that person was gone. In his grief and confusion, he made a decision that would have seemed natural to any serious Indian spiritual seeker: He would renounce the world entirely, leave his family and shop, and wander as a homeless sadhu.

He made it as far as the outskirts of Bombay before another disciple of Siddharameshwar found him and delivered a message that would define the rest of his life: His guru had said that the truth could be realized anywhere, in any circumstances. Running away from life wasn't necessary. The recognition he sought wasn't in some distant cave or forest—it was right here, in the midst of ordinary existence.

Nisargadatta returned to his shop, his wife, his children, his daily routine of selling bidis and household goods. But something had shifted. The intensive meditation practice, combined with his guru's transmission and his own desperate sincerity, had cracked something open. Over the following months and years, the sense of being a separate person—Maruti the shopkeeper, the husband, the father, the seeker—began to dissolve.

He would later describe it not as gaining something but as losing everything false. The person he had taken himself to be was revealed as a construction, a habit of thought, a story told so many times it had seemed solid. What remained when that story fell away wasn't another, better story. It was simply awareness itself—impersonal, unchanging, prior to all experience.

This wasn't a dramatic lightning-bolt enlightenment. It was more like waking from a dream and realizing you had never actually been the character in the dream. The character continued to appear—Nisargadatta still ran his shop, still had preferences and opinions, still got annoyed when customers haggled too aggressively. But there was no longer anyone who believed themselves to be fundamentally that character.

The Loft Above the Shop

For years, Nisargadatta taught quietly, mostly to neighbors and local seekers who heard about the bidi seller who spoke of ultimate truth. His teaching space was a small loft above his shop, reached by a narrow staircase. The room was perhaps twelve feet square, with a low ceiling and minimal furnishings—a few cushions on the floor, pictures of his guru and other saints on the walls, the ever-present smell of incense and bidi smoke.

He would sit cross-legged on his cushion, often shirtless in Bombay's heat, a bidi between his fingers, and speak with whoever came. There was no formal structure, no scheduled talks, no organization. People simply showed up, squeezed into the cramped space, and asked their questions. Nisargadatta answered with a directness that could be shocking.

"You are not the body," he would say. "You are not the mind. You are not even the sense of being present. You are that in which all of this appears." When visitors protested that they certainly felt like a body and mind, he would smile and ask: "Who is it that knows you have a body? Who is aware of the mind's thoughts?" He would point them back, again and again, to the awareness that was prior to all experience.

His teaching style was confrontational in the most compassionate way. He had no patience for spiritual concepts, philosophical debates, or elaborate practices. When Western seekers arrived with their knowledge of Buddhism, Vedanta, or various meditation techniques, he would often dismiss it all as "kindergarten stuff." What he wanted to know was: Who are you right now, before you reach for any concept or teaching?

He could be fierce. When people came with their problems—relationship troubles, career anxieties, health concerns—he would sometimes listen sympathetically, but more often he would cut through to what he saw as the root issue: the false identification with being a separate person to whom these things were happening. "First find out who you are," he would say. "Then we can talk about your problems."

Yet there was also tremendous warmth in his presence. Visitors often reported feeling seen in a way they had never experienced before—not as their story or their problems, but as the awareness they actually were. He would serve tea, joke with regulars, show genuine interest in people's lives even as he demolished their most fundamental assumptions about themselves.

The Absolute and the Relative

What made Nisargadatta's teaching distinctive was his uncompromising emphasis on the Absolute while fully acknowledging the relative reality of daily life. He didn't teach that the world was an illusion to be escaped or that the body and mind were obstacles to overcome. Rather, he pointed to a recognition that was prior to and inclusive of all experience.

He would often use the analogy of a movie screen. The screen is always present, unchanging, unaffected by whatever images appear on it. The images—the drama, the characters, the plot—are real as images, but they don't touch the screen itself. Similarly, you are the awareness in which all experience appears. The body, mind, emotions, thoughts, the entire world—all of this appears in you, but none of it is you.

This wasn't meant as a metaphor to contemplate but as a direct recognition to be realized. "Don't think about it," he would insist. "Look! See what you actually are right now." He would guide people to notice the awareness that was present before any thought arose, the consciousness that was there even in deep sleep when there was no body-mind experience at all.

His teaching evolved over the years. In his earlier period, he emphasized the practice of holding onto the sense of "I am"—the same instruction his guru had given him. This was a meditation practice: staying with the bare feeling of existence, of presence, without adding any content to it. Through sustained attention to this sense of being, one would eventually recognize what was prior even to that.

In his later years, particularly in the final decade of his life, his teaching became even more radical. He began to emphasize that even the sense of "I am," even consciousness itself, was not the ultimate. There was something prior to consciousness, prior to the sense of being—an absolute awareness that was beyond all experience, beyond existence and non-existence. This was not something to be attained or experienced, because any experience would still be within consciousness. It was what you already were, prior to the arising of consciousness itself.

This shift confused some of his longtime students. Was he contradicting his earlier teaching? He would explain that the teaching had to meet people where they were. For those identified with the body-mind, the instruction to recognize yourself as consciousness was liberating. But for those who had realized themselves as consciousness, there was a further recognition: even consciousness comes and goes (in sleep, in death), so what you truly are must be prior to consciousness itself.

The Practice of Self-Inquiry

Despite his emphasis on immediate recognition, Nisargadatta did give practical instruction. The core practice was a form of self-inquiry, though simpler and more direct than the elaborate methods found in some traditions.

The basic instruction was to ask yourself: "Who am I?" or "What am I?" But not as an intellectual question to be answered with concepts. Rather, it was a turning of attention back to its source. When you ask "Who am I?" and don't reach for any answer, what remains? When you look for the one who is asking the question, what do you find?

He would guide people to notice that they couldn't actually find themselves as an object. You can observe thoughts, but you're not a thought. You can observe feelings, but you're not a feeling. You can observe the body, but you're not the body. Everything you can observe is not you—you are the observing itself, the awareness in which all observation appears.

Another key practice was to stay with the sense of "I am" without adding anything to it. Not "I am a person," not "I am consciousness," not "I am enlightened" or "I am confused"—just the bare sense of being, of presence. This required vigilance, because the mind constantly wants to add content, to make the "I am" into something specific. The practice was to catch these additions and return to the pure sense of being.

He also emphasized what he called "earnestness" or "sincerity"—a quality of intense interest in the truth that went beyond mere curiosity. This wasn't something you could manufacture, but it could be cultivated by repeatedly asking yourself what you really wanted. Did you want comfort, security, pleasure? Or did you want to know the truth of what you are, regardless of whether that truth was comfortable?

For Nisargadatta, this earnestness was more important than any technique. A person with genuine earnestness would find their way to realization even with minimal instruction. A person without it could practice elaborate techniques for lifetimes without getting anywhere.

The Cancer and the Teaching

In his final years, Nisargadatta developed throat cancer—perhaps not surprising for a man who had chain-smoked bidis for decades. The disease was painful and progressively debilitating. Yet he continued teaching almost until the end, his voice growing weaker but his clarity undiminished.

The cancer became itself a teaching. Visitors would ask if he was suffering, if he was afraid of death. His responses revealed the depth of his realization. Yes, the body was in pain—he didn't deny the physical reality. But he was not the body. The pain was happening, but not to him. Death was coming for the body-mind, but what he actually was had never been born and could never die.

This wasn't spiritual bypassing or denial. He took medication, allowed doctors to examine him, acknowledged the progression of the disease. But there was a clear recognition that all of this was happening within awareness, not to awareness. The body-mind called Nisargadatta was dying, but the awareness in which that body-mind appeared was untouched.

Some visitors found this disturbing. How could he be so detached from his own suffering? But others recognized it as the ultimate demonstration of his teaching. He wasn't pretending the pain didn't exist or claiming to be beyond it through some spiritual achievement. He was simply resting as what he had always been—the awareness prior to all experience, including the experience of a dying body.

In one of his last recorded dialogues, someone asked if he would be reborn. He laughed—a laugh that turned into a painful cough—and said something like: "Who would be reborn? There is no one here who was ever born." It wasn't a philosophical statement but a direct report of his actual experience. The person who might be reborn, who might fear death, who might cling to life—that person had been seen through long ago.

Legacy and Living Relevance

Nisargadatta's influence spread far beyond his small loft in Bombay, primarily through the publication of I Am That in 1973. The book, compiled and translated by Maurice Frydman from tape recordings of dialogues, became a spiritual classic. Its combination of radical non-dualism and practical directness resonated with Western seekers who were tired of elaborate systems and wanted something immediate and real.

The book introduced thousands of people to Advaita Vedanta in its most uncompromising form. Unlike some teachers who softened the teaching for Western audiences, Nisargadatta's words came through with their full force: You are not who you think you are. Everything you believe about yourself is false. The truth is simpler and more immediate than any concept you can form.

His teaching influenced a generation of Western Advaita teachers, many of whom never met him but were transformed by reading his words. The emphasis on immediate recognition, on seeing through the illusion of separate selfhood right now rather than through years of practice, became a hallmark of what's sometimes called "neo-Advaita" or "direct path" teaching.

For contemporary seekers, Nisargadatta offers several enduring gifts. First, his teaching is remarkably free of cultural baggage. While rooted in the Advaita tradition, he didn't require belief in Hindu cosmology, karma, reincarnation, or any particular religious framework. The recognition he pointed to was prior to all belief systems.

Second, his emphasis on earnestness over technique is liberating for those overwhelmed by the marketplace of spiritual practices. You don't need to master elaborate meditation methods, study ancient texts, or join a community. You need only genuine interest in the truth and willingness to question your most basic assumptions about yourself.

Third, his integration of absolute and relative—his recognition that you are the unchanging awareness while still fully engaging with the changing world—offers a model of realization that doesn't require withdrawal from life. He ran his shop, supported his family, dealt with difficult customers and financial pressures, all while resting in the recognition of what he truly was.

Yet questions arise about certain aspects of his teaching and its legacy. His uncompromising approach, while powerful for some, could be harsh for others. The emphasis on immediate recognition sometimes led students to believe they were "done" when they had only glimpsed the truth intellectually. The teaching could be used to bypass genuine psychological work, with seekers dismissing their emotional wounds as "just thoughts" or "not real" without actually healing them.

The "neo-Advaita" movement that drew inspiration from Nisargadatta has sometimes distorted his teaching into a kind of spiritual nihilism—a dismissal of all practice, all ethics, all relative concerns as "just concepts." This wasn't Nisargadatta's teaching. He lived with integrity, emphasized earnestness and sincerity, and acknowledged the reality of the relative world even while pointing to what was absolute.

There's also the question of whether his particular path—the intense focus on self-inquiry and recognition of awareness—is complete in itself or needs to be balanced with other practices. Some students found that the recognition he pointed to, while genuine, didn't automatically resolve psychological patterns, relationship difficulties, or the challenges of living in the world. The absolute recognition needed to be integrated with relative healing and development.

For those drawn to Nisargadatta's teaching, the invitation is to take it seriously without taking it as the only truth. His pointing is powerful and direct, but it's one expression of the truth, not the only expression. The recognition he offers is real and transformative, but it may need to be complemented with other practices—psychological work, ethical development, embodiment practices—depending on what each individual needs.

Teachings in Their Own Words

"Wisdom tells me I am nothing. Love tells me I am everything. Between the two my life flows."

"The real does not die, the unreal never lived. Once you know that death happens to the body and not to you, you just watch your body falling off like a discarded garment."

"You are not what you take yourself to be. Find out what you are. Watch the sense 'I am,' find your real Self."

"The mind creates the abyss, the heart crosses it."

"You need not get at it, for you are it. It will get at you, if you give it a chance. Let go your attachment to the unreal and the real will swiftly and smoothly step into its own."

"All you need is already within you, only you must approach yourself with reverence and love. Self-condemnation and self-distrust are grievous errors."

The Gift of Ordinariness

What remains most striking about Nisargadatta is the ordinariness of his life combined with the extraordinariness of his realization. He never became a famous guru with a large organization. He never traveled, never sought publicity, never claimed special powers. He simply sat in his small loft, smoked his bidis, and pointed whoever came to the truth of what they were.

This ordinariness is itself a teaching. The recognition he offered isn't reserved for special people in special circumstances. It's available right here, right now, in the midst of whatever life you're living. You don't need to become someone else or go somewhere else. You need only to see what you already are.

For sincere seekers willing to question their most fundamental assumptions, Nisargadatta's teaching remains as fresh and immediate as when he first spoke it. The invitation is simple: Stop, look, and see what you actually are before you reach for any concept or belief. Not what you think you are, not what you hope to become, but what you are right now, prior to all thought. That recognition, he insisted, is the end of seeking and the beginning of living from truth.