Where a story really begins, and where it really ends, is difficult to determine. The soul has neither a beginning nor an end, and the same is true even for this character named Adi Suyash. For he is neither separate from, nor independent from, the bodies and experiences that came before him. His life is itself the culmination of those earlier experiences. His choices, both conscious and unconscious, bear the imprint of what has already been lived.

The triumphs and defeats of this lifetime, its desires and aversions, cannot be attributed only to the actions of this present birth. This life is not a starting episode, not a pilot chapter. No, it is an episode somewhere in the middle, perhaps even in the middle of a much larger middle. To simplify it, one may call it a new chapter, whose meaning can only be understood through the chapters that preceded it. And the story, too, will continue to move in that very direction.

It is but a new mask—yet by wearing a new mask, the wearer’s past does not come to an end, nor does his future become independent of that past.

Even I do not remember much about this past. Only a few lifetimes remain in memory, and those too survive merely as fragments. To discern which experience came before and which came after requires immense contemplation. At times, it is difficult even to understand to which lifetime a particular memory belongs.

Often, these recollections feel like scattered dreams, distant from one another, disconnected, and difficult to arrange into any coherent meaning or context. With time, these memories are becoming increasingly faint. I have an exceptionally bad memory. A memory grows stronger only when it is repeatedly recalled, and I do not allow that process to continue. Years of practicing to remain rooted in the present have left little space for such indulgence.

Nor does that persistent sense of “I” always remain intact, the ego around which memories weave and bind themselves together. Deprived of both ego and recollection, these memories are gradually dissolving.

Before they disappear entirely, I wish to write down whatever I still remember of my previous lives, this present life, and the experiences that accompany them. Seekers wish to know these things, and there are times when I am unable to answer them simply because I no longer remember clearly myself.

Believe me, I have no particular fascination with narrating my own story, nor do I identify with it. In truth, I feel that speaking about the sequence of my experiences is often a misuse of time, especially when we could instead be speaking of Shiva, or discussing the answers to your questions, things that may actually help you.

And so, only occasionally, and only as an illustration to clarify a deeper point, do I narrate fragments of my own experiences. (But given the way things are progressing, in the future even that may no longer be possible!)

Perhaps that is why I am writing now.

(Now I do relate, but) Earlier, I used to think that the people of India suffered from a kind of historical amnesia—that we scarcely documented our own history. And what we did preserve as “itihasa” often appears deeply dubious, filled with strange timelines (Rama ruling for 11,000 years…) and narratives forced into spiritual symbolism.

The Maurya and Nanda dynasties themselves left behind almost no detailed historical accounts, let alone the Saraswati–Sindhu civilization. More often than not, it was outsiders who documented India’s past for us. It is through the Greek ambassador Megasthenes that much of the Mauryan period became known to later generations. Knowledge about the Gupta era survived significantly through the accounts of the Chinese monk Xuanzang. At one point, people even referred to Ashoka’s iron pillar as “Bhima’s staff,” with little understanding of its actual origin. Thereafter came the records of Arab chroniclers, Mughal historians, and finally the British.

Even the foundations of the Archaeological Survey of India were laid by Alexander Cunningham, an Englishman. The sages themselves rarely took the trouble to record their own lives. We do not know who authored the Upanishads, nor did those sages seem particularly interested in preserving such personal details. Kalidasa wrote nothing about himself. Nor did Chanakya. It is only because Abhinavagupta wrote a little about himself that we are able to infer details about his teachers, disciples, and even approximate the dates of his works.

Otherwise, the dating of many of our scriptures would today be even more distorted than it already is. Many texts are casually assigned far more recent origins than they likely possess, simply because their authors never documented their lives—when they were born, who they were, or the circumstances in which they lived.

The Buddhists and the Jains, however, did write about themselves. In fact, within the Buddhist tradition, it became customary for disciples to compose biographies of their teachers. Perhaps that is one reason why many people today are able to claim that Buddhism is older even than Hinduism, because it possesses a larger body of written records, documented timelines, and historical continuity preserved in textual form.

There were, of course, a few rare exceptions, such as the Rajatarangini of Kalhana, through which we receive a remarkably detailed account of Kashmir and its kings. I was deeply fond of that work. One verse from it has always stayed with me:

धर्मार्थकाममोक्षाणाम् उपदेशसमन्वितम् ।
पूर्ववृत्तं कथायुक्तम् इतिहासं प्रचक्षते ॥

“History,” it says, “is a narrative of past events and stories, imbued with teachings on the four aims of human life—Dharma (righteousness), Artha (wealth), Kama (desire), and Moksha (liberation).”

That, too, is the reason I speak of these past experiences and events, not so that I may be regarded as extraordinary or revered in any special way, but rather the opposite: so that I may be seen as an ordinary human being who walked the very path upon which you yourselves now walk.

So that you may learn from my mistakes, and imitate whatever I happened, by mistake, to do correctly! So that you may understand that if a person like me could walk this path, then perhaps anyone can.

This writing is not for myself; it is for you, so that, in some small way, it may help you move toward the four aims of human life: Dharma, Artha, Kāma, and Mokṣa.

So let us begin from that point which is clearest and easiest for me to speak about: this present lifetime. It will likely be easier for you as well, for it is through this life that most of you know me (unless, of course, you happen to be among those very few…).

To be continued…