During a recent week-long spiritual ceremony — Shrimad Bhagavat Puran Saptah Shravan — I experienced something so profound yet natural that words may only scratch its surface. Each morning, I would sit silently in front of the Vyas (the orator), lay down my asana, and begin watching the breath gently move in and out. Very soon, it would begin to calm, slow, and gradually dissolve.
In that serene flow, I noticed something subtle: thoughts and old mental impressions arose not as distractions but as waves perfectly synced with the breath itself. The pace of thinking was no longer random — it was breathing itself. The passage of time changed too. An entire hour felt like just a few minutes. It wasn’t imagination — it was happening.
Then, something rarer occurred.
Infrequently, but unmistakably, the breath would entirely stop. Mind stilled completely. There was no effort to hold breath. It simply ceased, and with it, the world became a still pond. This was Keval Kumbhak — spontaneous breath suspension without control or intention. The experience was so still, it felt like someone might have left the body, yet it was deeply aware, rooted, and intimate. A sense of absorption that made even the thought of breath unnecessary. Means I was so deeply absorbed in stillness that even thinking about breathing felt unnecessary. It was as if breath didn’t matter — only silence remained. Prior to and after this stage, the feeling of the in-breath and out-breath was deeply absorbing. As I gradually moved toward full Keval Kumbhak, it began to feel as though no air was actually moving in or out — and yet, an inner breathing movement continued. The physical breath had nearly disappeared, but within, it felt as if something subtle was flowing like inner inbreathing and outbreathing movements along the spine. Also chest, abdomen and whole body was showing breath movements as usual but too subtly to allow physical air movement in and out. There was a gentle, rhythmic motion — more experiential and less overt or physical, but energetic — as if the energy itself were silently rising and falling, instead of air. This wasn’t imagined; it was vividly real. It felt as though prana had taken over the role of breath, flowing upward and downward through the central channel, the sushumna, without any air exchange. In that stillness, this inner current became more obvious — as if life itself was now circulating directly through the spine, without the need for breath. One major contributing factor that appeared to produce this state was that I was producing and conserving energy at lower chakras without releasing it outside through Tantric practice.
This experience I went through — of spontaneous stillness, subtle inner flow, and natural suspension of breath — is likely what ancient yogic texts describe using terms like “balancing prana and apana,” “the upward and downward currents,” or “the tug-of-war between prana and apana.” While these descriptions are accurate from the perspective of subtle physiology, in reality, they are just linguistic frameworks — conceptual attempts to explain what is essentially a practical and direct experience.
When we approach yoga only through these theoretical terms, it can create confusion or even fear. For a practitioner standing at the threshold of deep inner states, words like “prana-apana conflict” or “kundalini shock” can feel intimidating, and may discourage continued practice. But yoga is not meant to be a battlefield of concepts — it is a living, breathing path of experience. The body, breath, and awareness already know what to do when approached with sincerity and steadiness.
Once a genuine practical foundation is established through methods like Tantric or simple kriya yoga, spinal breathing, asana, and chakra meditation, these ancient terms begin to make intuitive sense after the fact — not before. They are meant to be confirmations, not prerequisites. When you actually feel the subtle energy dynamics within, you recognize that theory has its place, but practice is the true teacher. It’s only through consistent practice that one comes to realize: there is no need to wrestle with technical jargon. The inner intelligence of life — prana itself — begins to guide you, far more reliably than any book can.
So instead of getting caught in mental acrobatics or fearing whether prana and apana are balanced, just keep practicing. Let the breath slow, let the spine align, let stillness come. Everything else will follow naturally — not through intellectual effort, but through the quiet wisdom of the inner self.
The Hindi explanations in the afternoon had similar effects. The ambience played its part too — the sound of bells, the conch, the continuous chanting of Vedic mantras, incense, flames, and the presence of devoted priests doing their japa. The whole environment supported and gently deepened the inner silence. Some people noticed my unmoving posture and wondered how one could sit so still for so long — but I myself felt like I wasn’t doing anything.
This deep state, however, didn’t just arise from attending the event. It had a silent preparation behind it.
Every morning, I continued my routine as usual: 15 minutes of Kriya Yoga spinal breathing, followed by one hour of yogasana including chakra meditation. What I noticed over time is that spinal breathing created a sort of “potential difference” between the lower and upper chakras — a real energetic tension, not just symbolic. As this potential rose, the breath naturally became subtle and eventually stopped — Keval Kumbhak again, this time without any willful breath retention.
At first, this kriya process brought heaviness to the head — a sign that energy had risen and accumulated in the upper centers, especially Ajna. But this was not a disturbance. Interestingly, this head pressure would later discharge on its own — sometimes during Keval Kumbhak or a spontaneous moment of stillness — and the mind would become crystal clear.
On one such morning, I did my spinal breathing at 5 a.m. and then lay down on the bed. Though I had gotten little sleep the night before, I slipped into a beautiful, restful sleep for half to one hour — not drowsy, but deeply silent. On waking, the heaviness in the head was completely gone, but I could still feel the energy axis — the same potential difference — humming quietly. It felt like this charge was preserved and would discharge later at any quiet moment during the day through spontaneous Keval Kumbhak.
This left me thinking deeply: perhaps it is not always necessary to push toward stillness. The energy, once awakened, seems to have its own intelligence. It knows when to rest, when to flow, when to stop — like a river that doesn’t need help to find its sea.
As I reflected on all this, I realized: this is not an achievement but a stage of unfolding. I haven’t yet reached the full stability of Nirvikalpa Samadhi. My earlier experience of cosmic consciousness in a dream during adolescence felt even more transformative than this. That adolescent glimpse left me craving renunciation and freedom — a longing that shook my sense of reality. What I’ve experienced now, in contrast, is more peaceful, more grounded, and more systematic. The craving has lessened, but the understanding has deepened.
I now believe that Kriya Yoga is gently reintroducing what I had once touched too suddenly. Earlier, I had tried to raise energy quickly — from base to brain — skipping over the chakras, focusing only on the endpoint. Now, with more awareness, I see the importance of balance. I’ve started grounding practices as well — not through force, but simply being in the world while staying anchored in that silent current.
Sometimes the bliss is strong, sometimes it’s subtle. The energy goes up and down — and I let it. I no longer feel the need to force it into permanence. I’ve realized this: the real maturity is when bliss doesn’t chase us, nor do we chase it — it becomes a quiet companion.
These subtle breathless moments, these silent pauses — whether during a ritual, after kriya, or randomly in the day — have taught me more than many words ever could. I now see spiritual growth not as something I must accomplish, but something I must allow.
And perhaps, that’s what it means to truly begin the inner journey.
Demystifying Kundalini 