It remains only to remark that, what I, the survivor through, get called is in some measure a matter of semantical preference. And Sanskrit terms that might, sometimes, be rendered “consciousness” in English — like ‘citta’, or ‘caitanya’, or ‘cetana’, for instance — could serve, and do, solong as one stays mindful of the facts — that they are terms for what I am, surviving through my being conscious, and my not being so, and not merely for what I am, (...) when conscious.What seems to me of deep significance, though, is that other terms — like ‘ātman’, ‘puru $$\underset{\raise0.3em\hbox{$\smash{\scriptscriptstyle\cdot}$}}{s}$$ a’, ‘sāk $$\underset{\raise0.3em\hbox{$\smash{\scriptscriptstyle\cdot}$}}{s}$$ in’, and even ‘'jīvātman’ — far more often get used for what I'm talking of here; and that none of these obviously, or, indeed, ever need mean ‘consciousness’.6. (shrink)

Often we feel there is something odd about death, and especially about our own. This latter at least we often feel beyond our ken. Well, I think in a sense it may be; but in another, clearly is not. Among those who have felt this strangeness is Ramchandra Gandhi who, in an excellent recent work, The Availability of Religious Ideas , maintained – There is no difficulty in seeing that I cannot intelligibly conceive of my own death – the ceasing (...) to be, for good, of myself, my consciousness. I can conceive of temporary lapses into unconsciousness, always overcome by a return to consciousness. The difficulty is this: in asking myself the question 'What will it be like to be irreversibly unconscious?' , I want both to remain self-conscious and visualize actual loss of capacity for self-consciousness. This cannot be done. (shrink)