In plain words
conveyed to the world, in terms it could understand, the divine experiences they had. Just as one points a finger at the unreachable moon, the maharshis taught ordinary human beings, each at their own level and in a manner within their reach, about a completeness that lies beyond mind and speech. Here is a small example: the knowledge that this small body is one's own is less conducive to happiness than the knowledge that two bodies are one's own — the second would surely bring still more happiness, would it not! In this way, as the number of bodies one calls one's own increases, the experience of happiness keeps increasing along with it, until it attains the form of universal consciousness — and then complete bliss is attained. For such infinite personhood to be attained, the individuality that is confined within this petty prison of the body must cease to exist. Only when the ego-sense called 'I' unites with the jīva does death cease forever. Only when happiness too attains union does sorrow cease forever. When it unites with Jñāna, error too ceases forever.
The notion that our physical individuality is real is born purely of illusion; in the limitlessly extended ocean that is matter, this body of yours is a mere atom-sized thing subject to ceaseless transformation, while your true, second self — the jīvātma that is this body's counterpart — achieving union with it is precisely what is being proposed, sanctioned even by physical science: that is its hidden meaning. In the fullness of time, it is certain that all the sciences will arrive at this very conclusion. A tree's true nature must be judged by its fruit. Even men of unequalled character in matters of ethics and of spiritual truth have held that idol-worship is best. As long as the illusion of the body persists, worship through a physical form remains necessary; idol-worship is a means to that end. Many people think such things are blind superstitions. That is not correct.
To call it a blind superstition is itself a foolish impulse. Is not trusting in one's own body — is that not itself a blind superstition? Is it an eternal frame? Within the space of a single sneeze,