In everyday experience, it's easy to fall into the belief that this is who we are. That life is happening for this person, in this body, with this story. But what if this is just a learned way of seeing? What if behind this story—right now—there's something more real?
In this fragment of Satsang, Nitya leads to a recognition that requires no concept or spiritual theory. It's not a philosophy—it's a reminder of something that was present before we learned to say "I."
Most of us, from childhood, live with the feeling that we are someone specific. A body with a name, a history, a character. That everything that happens is for that person. Thoughts, relationships, successes, and failures—all built around the figure of "me."
But what if this story, though so close, doesn't tell the whole truth? What if it's just a habit—a way of looking at things that was formed long ago and never questioned?
In this Satsang, a question arises that can change everything, yet takes nothing away. What remains when the "I" ceases to be the center? Is there still seeing? Feeling? Breathing? Life?
It's not a theory. It's something you can feel—often when you least expect it. As if something has finally loosened up. And instead of focusing on this one character, your attention extends to something larger. Something that was always there—even when we thought we were someone else.
We don't remember the moment we began to believe that we were this particular body. That "I" was something separate, enclosed in a physical form. This belief emerged very early on—before we even learned to check if something was true. Everything around us seemed to confirm it: the words we heard, the things we felt, the way adults named us and described the world.
But just because something seems obvious doesn't make it true. Sometimes a moment of silence is enough to see that the belief in separation was never a fact. And then something new emerges—a sense of relief, as if a long-clenched muscle could finally relax.
"That we are only this body is not a fact. It is something we believe."
It can come unnoticed. Suddenly, something that has always been at the forefront—this inner story about "me," my body, my life—ceases to be the center. It doesn't disappear entirely, but it ceases to guide. And yet, there is still seeing. There are still sounds, breathing, feeling. Life doesn't disappear with the person.
What disappears is something held together for years—the tension that tried to hold identity together as something solid. And when that tension releases, something softer emerges. Something that no longer needs to defend anything. The presence becomes clearer, not because we created it—but because nothing obscures it anymore.
Before there was a name, before there was a distinction between "self" and "world," there was presence. There was life that had not yet taken form. A child who looked at the world without the need for interpretation, without a story about who she was or why she was there.
Nitya uses many words to indicate this dimension - Consciousness, space, presence, screen. But none of them fully captures it. And none of them are necessary to experience it. The natural state doesn't need to be named to be real. It is available in every moment—not as something unique, but as something that precedes everything else.
“It’s not exactly the right word, but these words can bring us closer to that inner feeling of something that already exists.”
Whatever arises—thoughts, emotions, sensations—occurs against a backdrop of something that doesn't change. Like images on a screen that flicker and disappear, but the screen itself remains still, silent, present.
What we commonly call life seems to be everything - what is currently being experienced, commented on, and important. But each of these experiences requires a backdrop. Something that allows them to exist. Something that isn't "someone" but through which everything else can happen. Without it, there would be no seeing. There would be no looking. There would be no "me." And yet, it is precisely this something that is always there - before thought arises, before the body reacts, before the story begins.
It's not about abandoning your life, your body, or your personality. Nor is it about pretending that what you feel, think, or remember doesn't exist. It's about something more quiet—a shift. It's about recognizing that not everything has to be seen from a single, narrow perspective.
Maybe not every emotion requires a response. Maybe something inside you - much deeper, calmer - has always been watching.
There's no need to call it presence, awareness, or space. There's no need to understand it. Simply allow what has always been to become visible again - if only for a moment.
There's no need to change or understand anything. Satsang allows us to see that what truly exists no longer requires confirmation. The recording is available below.
The word Satsang comes from Sanskrit, where "sat" means truth and "sangha" community. Literally translated, it means "being in the company of truth" or "community with truth". In practice, Satsang is not only meetings with others, but above all with ourselves, with our deepest essence. It is a process of discovering what is unchanging, timeless and free in us.
A sense of separation accompanies many of us from a young age. As children, we quickly come to believe that we are separate individuals, limited to our bodies and thoughts. We take for granted the existence of an individual “self.” But does this belief hold up to close examination?