In plain words
You think, ‘This body is mine.’ For how long is it yours? You think it is yours as long as the breath goes in and out. Once that stops, what is yours? If in a single moment the breath stops going in and out, we know nothing at all. Day and night our breath, going in and out, teaches the Satya ‘So-haṃ’ (I myself am God). But you are unable to recognise this Satya. We draw in the air saying ‘So’; we let out the air saying ‘haṃ’. Drawing in the air is itself birth; letting it out is itself death. If we are to be rid of both of these, we must give up attachment to the body. I do it that way and show you. This body goes through many pains. Just as many troubles and losses come to all of you, they come to this body too. But I take no account of them. You think there is unbearable pain at the time of the liṅgodbhava. It is there, that is true. But it feels like pain only when you fix your attention on it.
If you stand firm, saying, ‘This is not mine,’ that pain does not come to your notice. When we think, ‘This is my handkerchief,’ we keep it safe, clean off all the dirt that sticks to it, and use it. But do we think the dirt stuck to the handkerchief is ours? We do not; we throw it away, knowing it is not ours. In the same way, when we think it is not ours, there is no pain at all. This body has had many pains of this kind until now; even the hip bone broke. But all those pains were the body's alone, not Mine. Only when you cast off pain in this way will Śānti come to you. If you scratch because an ant is crawling on your hand, the pain grows all the worse. When an ant bites so big a body, why so much pain? We think, ‘All these are mine, mine,’ and feed our delusions. We believe that all the eyes see is Satya. But all that we see changes in a little while. What we hear changes in a little while. What we eat is digested in a little while. In these three, what is seen, heard and eaten, nothing is permanent. You must recognise what stays permanent in all three times.