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Understanding Throat Chakra Imbalances

A few days ago, something unusual happened. A boy in my house did a major mischief, and before I even realized it, a few objectionable words flew from my mouth. It felt completely unintentional. There was no anger in me at that moment, not even the conscious urge to speak harshly. The words just erupted on their own—as if they had a life of their own, like husk flying off from a wheat thresher. It left me puzzled. Were those words hiding in my subconscious, waiting for the right trigger?

After it happened, I felt disturbed. The boy sensed the energy too. I immediately told him, with honesty, that it had occurred without my knowledge. To help him understand and not carry any burden from it, I gently advised him never to use bad words, even in fun. I told him that such words may settle in the subconscious without our realizing it, and one day, they may come out impulsively—just as they did from me. He understood. A small, sensitive heart can often grasp the truth far more deeply than we assume.

But there was more to it. I had also been on a stretch of spicy, ceremonial meals over the past few days. These delicious foods, though celebratory, can disturb the inner terrain, especially for someone like me with a sensitive system and occasional GERD. Along with the physical inflammation, I began feeling tightness in my throat—a pressure that seemed to go beyond just acidity. It felt energetic.

In that same phase, I had begun a breath regulation practice. I was experimenting with a short withholding of breath after exhalation in the morning at times, after having meals. It was not forceful, but gentle—a way to regularize the breath and subtly dislodge recent emotional attachments, especially to manipulative or mischievous energies I had encountered in ceremonies. In the morning with fully empty stomach, this practice felt safe. It even brought clarity. But when I tried similar breath holds at other times of day, especially after meals, it seemed to trigger the very symptoms I was trying to release: throat tightness, irritation, even heat.

This made me reflect more deeply. The early morning kumbhaka (breath-hold after exhale) was harmless and even helpful. My stomach was empty, the energy calm, and the breath flowed with natural rhythm. But later in the day, especially when the stomach was processing food, the same breath control created an upward pressure that worsened my GERD and throat discomfort.

That’s when a larger picture began to form. The words I had spoken to the boy didn’t emerge from anger. They came out of that very throat irritation. It wasn’t a psychological reaction—it was a physical-energetic overflow. As if my body, unable to contain the pressure, vomited the words out. The cause was not the mind, but the body—and yet the words, once released, added to the emotional disturbance, which in turn worsened the physical irritation. A complete cycle was in motion—body affecting mind, mind feeding back into body.

This insight hit me deeply. I realized that speech, especially uncontrolled or involuntary speech, can be a direct expression of unresolved physical or energetic congestion. The Vishuddha Chakra—the throat center that governs expression—was not in its balance. And instead of filtering or transmuting the pressure, it had let it escape as sound, as words.

From here began a healing movement.

I gently stepped back from any breath retention after meals. I let the throat rest. I softened the diet—light khichdi, buttermilk, tender coconut water. I also began softly humming in the early morning, a vibration that didn’t disturb but instead soothed the irritated Vishuddha center. I continued my short, safe morning kumbhaka—holding breath only after exhaling, for just a few calm seconds, and only when it felt completely light and effortless. And also spinal breathing of Kriya yoga. I visualized blue light washing the throat from within, healing the leftover irritation, restoring the natural silence beneath speech.

And more importantly, I began to forgive myself—not from the mind, but from the heart. I saw clearly that it wasn’t me who had chosen those words. It was a confluence of physical inflammation, subconscious residue, and energetic imbalance. But I also saw that by acknowledging it, by explaining it honestly to the boy, and by reflecting deeply on it, something transformed. The cycle broke. Means, I advised the boy never to use bad words, even in fun, as they can lodge in the subconscious without our awareness and may resurface at any time without our knowing. The boy understood the message, and thus, this annoying incident was transformed into a mutual learning experience.

In those moments, I realized again that spiritual work doesn’t always unfold in calm meditation or grand insights. Sometimes, it takes the shape of an unguarded word, a burning throat, a realization in the midst of imperfection. I haven’t reached any final state. I’m still learning. Still refining. But this experience gave me a lived taste of how intricately our body, breath, energy, and subconscious are intertwined.

The throat chakra isn’t just about speaking truth. It’s about carrying the truth even when the body is inflamed and the subconscious is stirred. It’s about a silence that arises not from suppression, but from resolution. However, a mental trigger is still needed to initiate any action from the body — the body alone cannot act on its own. Therefore, it is essential to keep the mind clean and clear at all times, so that it does not provide even the slightest trigger for the body to initiate an unsocial response.

And if one word can erupt from pain, another can emerge from healing. That second word, spoken with awareness, has the power to restore not only the throat but also the heart. And in doing all this, it turned into a kind of funny play—life showing its strange humor through it all.

Operation Sindoor: India’s Precision Strike That Redefined South Asian Power Balance

On this Buddha Purnima, we honour the strength that walks the path of peace. Like Buddha’s wisdom, true power lies not in destruction but in restraint, precision, and clarity. Operation Sindoor reminds us that when dharma guides action, even force becomes a step toward lasting harmony.”

On the night of May 8, 2025, the Indian Air Force executed Operation Sindoor, a coordinated precision strike targeting 11 high-value Pakistani airbases. This was not just a military maneuver but a calculated geopolitical message. In response to escalated infiltration attempts and increasing UAV activity across the Line of Control, India opted for a limited but powerful retaliation—signaling the arrival of a more assertive doctrine.

The targets included airbases like Nur Khan (Rawalpindi), Rafiqui, Sargodha, Skardu, Bhollari, Jacobabad, Sialkot, and more. Among them, Nur Khan Airbase—known for hosting VIP transport aircraft, refueling platforms, and critical command units—suffered the most damage. Satellite imagery and analysis from sources like India Today, Economic Times, and The Guardian confirmed that hangars, radar systems, and at least two aircraft were either destroyed or severely damaged.

India’s strike precision came from the integration of SU-30 MKIs and Rafale jets, satellite-guided PGMs, AWACS, and electronic warfare systems that blinded enemy radars. The operation was clean, contained, and strategically devastating. Civilian areas were avoided entirely.

In the immediate aftermath, Pakistan initially denied serious damage, but its actions spoke louder. A sudden unilateral ceasefire was announced within 48 hours. Reports began surfacing about American aircraft circling Rawalpindi, allegedly scanning for radiation leaks—speculated to be from a compromised weapons facility near or within Nur Khan. Though unconfirmed, multiple intelligence reports suggest something far more sensitive than air operations may have been hit.

Internationally, the operation did not attract condemnation. Instead, the U.S. and other global players quietly urged de-escalation. Unlike past incidents, India’s strike was seen as proportionate and professionally executed. Even hostile media houses could not ignore the sophistication and restraint displayed.

Historically, Pakistan has often operated under a doctrinal belief system that portrays non-Muslims (kafirs) as adversaries, justifying hostility as a religious obligation. On the other hand, India, rooted in the liberal and inclusive ethos of Sanatan Dharma, has traditionally adopted a defensive stance, even when repeatedly provoked. This contrast—between aggression in the name of ideology and restraint in the name of dharma—has defined much of South Asia’s modern history. Although all types of people exist in every sect, religion, or culture, the proportions vary, influenced by the underlying guiding doctrine.

However, modern warfare no longer favors brute aggression. With intelligence, technology, and global ethics shaping the new battlefield, it is the doctrine of universal brotherhood and strategic precision that prevails. Operation Sindoor stands as testimony to how a civilization guided by restraint, wisdom, and strength can deliver a powerful blow without compromising its core values.

Most critically, Operation Sindoor neutralized key puzzle pieces of Pakistan’s rapid deployment capability. While nuclear warheads are stored separately and assembled only before launch, even disrupting storage, command infrastructure, or assembly logistics renders the system ineffective. In that sense, India has not just struck hardware—it has struck confidence.

With minimum escalation, maximum strategic gain, and a clear deterrent effect, India has achieved far more than a conventional war could deliver. Operation Sindoor will go down in history not as a battle, but as a turning point—a moment when India announced that it would no longer absorb threats passively but would act precisely, decisively, and in line with its civilizational values.

#OperationSindoor #IAF #IndiaPakistan #NurKhan #AirStrike #StrategicVictory #SouthAsia #Geopolitics #SanatanDharma

Operation Sindoor: When Bharat Rose in the Name of Dharma

On May 6, 2025, India launched Operation Sindoor — not just a military strike, but a civilizational response. It was a bold, righteous act of justice in retaliation for the cowardly massacre of 26 Hindu tourists by Pakistan-backed terrorists in the sacred land of Pahalgam, Kashmir.

These were not just men. They were husbands, fathers, sons, brutally gunned down in front of their wives, in a scene that mirrored ancient barbarity. The attack wasn’t just against individuals — it was an assault on Hindu identity, family values, and the very soul of Bharat.

The Sacred Meaning of Sindoor

Sindoor — the vermilion applied in the parting of a Hindu married woman’s hair — is not merely a tradition. It is a symbol of Shakti, of sacred union, and of the living presence of her husband. It represents continuity, protection, dignity, and the sacredness of marriage in Hindu Dharma.

By naming this military retaliation Operation Sindoor, India declared that the blood spilled in Pahalgam would not go unanswered. The symbolism was powerful: those women who lost their sindoor would now see justice not only as widows but as mothers of a nation that fights back. The sindoor may have turned red with grief, but it will blaze now with the fire of righteous vengeance.

A Civilizational Response, Not Just a Counterstrike

Operation Sindoor was not just geopolitics — it was Dharma in action. Hindu philosophy teaches:
“Ahimsa Paramo Dharma, Dharma Himsa Tathaiva Cha” – Nonviolence is the highest virtue, but righteous violence is Dharma too, when adharma prevails.

With precision strikes on terror camps in Pakistan and Pakistan-occupied Kashmir, India dismantled the very networks that fuelled the Pahalgam horror. Each strike carried the weight of 26 innocent lives — and the unspoken prayers of 26 grieving wives.

India’s Message to the World

Operation Sindoor was Bharat’s roar:
We are a civilization of peace, but not of submission.
We believe in unity, tolerance, and dialogue — but we do not turn the other cheek when Dharma is attacked.
This operation was a warrior’s tribute to womanhood, to motherhood, and to every woman whose sindoor was wiped off by bullets of hate.

Hindu Resilience in the Face of Terror

The Hindu spirit has endured centuries of invasions, genocide, and desecration — and yet, it survives, thrives, and now strikes back when provoked. Pahalgam will not be remembered as a place of massacre but as the spark that ignited Sanatan fury — calm, precise, and full of resolve.

Let the world remember:
Sindoor is not a mark of weakness. It is a crown of sacrifice.
And when that crown is stained with blood, Bharat becomes Durga — fierce and unstoppable.

Pakistan has once again resorted to its old habit of targeting innocent civilians, killing 12 Indians on 7 May 2025 through unprovoked cross-border firing. This continues a long and tragic history of atrocities committed by Pakistan against non-combatants. However, India will respond with strength and precision — by targeting the perpetrators, not innocent civilians — in stark contrast to Pakistan’s reckless and inhumane actions.

Conclusion: A New Chapter in Hindu Awakening

Operation Sindoor is not just a military chapter — it is a spiritual moment in modern Indian history. It marks the awakening of a nation that has finally learned to blend compassion with courage, and tradition with toughness.

As we honor the fallen, let us also salute the spirit of their wives — the bearers of sindoor — who now carry both pain and pride. The enemy wanted to break the Hindu spirit. Instead, they strengthened it.

Jai Hind. Jai Sanatan. Jai Maa Bharati.

What Is the Light of the Self? A Conversation from the Depths of Experience

After certain intense spiritual experiences, a question kept echoing in me: After death, is there not pure self-awareness—whatever form the self takes—unlike deep sleep, where there’s no self-awareness? This wasn’t just a philosophical question. I had experienced something that wouldn’t let me rest until it found articulation.

There was a dream visitation from a departed soul. It wasn’t visual or physical but felt like a deeply encoded presence. It carried its individuality from its lifetime, but in a form that was compacted, compressed, like darkness itself. Glistening darkness. As if its entire personality had been shrunk into a concentrated essence. A mascara-like, subtle blackness—a self folded into itself.

It asked me, confused: Is this liberation?

It felt to me as if that soul wanted to escape out of that encoded envelope. And I noticed something else—the state of that soul was entirely different from my own awakening experience. In my deepest moment of inner realization, I had experienced a self that was one with mental formations, like waves in a vast ocean. But those waves were not separate from the Self. They were the Self. That was light. That was bliss. That was ultimate.

And yet, I must admit: that wasn’t the pure Self. It was the Self with content. An ocean full of shimmering movement. I did not experience the ocean without waves. And that makes a difference.

When I was asked by that dreamlike soul about liberation, I found myself unable to describe the real nature of the pure Self—because I myself hadn’t achieved it. I had only experienced a vastness filled with blissful movement. I had not yet known the silence beyond even bliss. I only replied that it is not light and it seems compressed and stressed although it was infinitely vast and dark sky. Probably as I remember I advised it to move further ahead to light just guessing from my own experience as I had moved ahead and ahead in yoga to reach awakening. It had also told that it used to be afraid of death in vain but this state is not so called death like and it feels it is good enough and living like.

Still, my sadhana continues. I do advanced kundalini yoga. My meditation image is often the soul or essence of a departed one, the one closest or nearest in relation to it. It feels like this in itself becomes a prayer—an automatic offering beyond words to help it to be liberated if it is lingering somewhere inbetween. There’s something deeply natural in that.

But one doubt remained. In that visitation, I had seen darkness—the kind that doesn’t feel evil, but also doesn’t feel free. Yet, I realized: pure awareness cannot be called dark. Neither can it be called light. Because both darkness and light are properties of reflective material.

Even space itself is a kind of material. The pure Self is not space, though space-like. It’s not dark, not luminous. When we call it “self-luminous,” it makes the mind think of it like some glowing thing. But it isn’t.

“Self-luminous” is just a pointer. It simply means: it knows itself without help. It doesn’t reflect. It doesn’t shine on. It doesn’t receive light. It simply is.

It is awareness being aware. But not in the way we usually think of “being aware.”

I recalled the Upanishadic truth:

“It is not known by the mind, but by which the mind is known.”

“It shines not, neither sun, nor moon, nor fire. It alone gives light to all. By its light all else is seen.”

These statements aren’t about light. They’re about presence prior to perception.

And then something beautiful settled into my understanding. I realized that metaphors can help if used delicately. And some traditional metaphors suddenly made deep sense to me:

1. The Mirror That Reflects Nothing
Like a mirror that reflects no object—but remains the potential to reflect. Still. Unmoving. Unused. That’s the Self.

2. The Eye That Sees But Cannot See Itself
It sees all, but can’t become its own object. Like awareness. It knows all, but is never an object of knowing.

3. The Silence Behind All Sound
Sound comes and goes, but silence remains. Not silent as absence, but as eternal background.

4. The Sky Untouched by Clouds
Clouds come and go. Sky remains. Not even made of space. Self is subtler than space.

5. A Flame That Doesn’t Burn
Like the idea of flame without heat or glow. No wick, no oil. Just presence without quality.

These helped me not as knowledge, but as living orientation.

Still, I find that when the mental waves subside, the bliss subsides too. That ultimate peak cannot be held by force. And yet, that doesn’t feel like a failure anymore. It feels like a natural return.

What I experienced was likely Savikalpa Samadhi—where Self and waves are one. Blissful, yes. Transformative, yes. But not final. Not the ocean without waves. Not the pure Self beyond even bliss.

There’s still something lacking. I don’t pretend to have reached the final goal. The experience felt like the peak of existence, the ultimate moment of union. But I know that I haven’t merged into the unconditioned ocean of pure awareness.

What remains then is trust. Gentle remembrance. Resting. Not trying to grab the ocean. Just to be the presence that always was.

I let this be my guide:

“I am that which saw the waves. Let me rest as that.”

This means: I am not the movement, not even the blissful play of awakening. I am the witnessing reality behind it—the one that never moves, never becomes. The one that knows even the subtlest wave is still an appearance in Me.

Sometimes I forget to stay aware of who I really am. But even in that forgotten state, I can still see the reflection of my true self—sometimes in my own hand or face—because everything, even this body, holds the whole within it, like a hologram. This simple recognition instantly brings me back to awareness, without effort. So whenever I drift, I gently return—again and again—knowing that even the forgetting happens inside that same awareness.

That is the path now. Not chasing light. Not escaping darkness. Just resting in That which is neither—and beyond.

Keval Kumbhak, Turiya, and the Simplicity That’s Often Overlooked

I began reflecting on a very personal and experiential question: If deep sleep is experienced with self-awareness, can it be called Kaivalya or Turiya? What is the nature of this awareness — not just philosophically, but from within my own being? I felt that watching the sleep state unfold — not as a dream, but as awareness of the sleep itself — seemed to hint at something beyond ordinary waking or dreaming states.

But then the paradox arose: in deep sleep, there are no thoughts. So how could there be any “witnessing” if the instrument of thought was absent? I kept asking myself: How is it even possible to say one witnessed deep sleep without a trace of mental activity?

And then a deeper question emerged: If this witnessing without thought in deep sleep is already so subtle and mysterious, how can Kaivalya be ahead of it? Shouldn’t this be the final frontier?

A vivid image arose in me — like the sky watching the weather. And I wondered, does the weather represent thought? Then what is sky? It is just being. The sky remains unchanged, whether storms or silence pass through. In the same way, awareness remains, whether thoughts arise or fall silent.

Witnessed Deep Sleep (Conscious Sushupti): No ego, no mind, but awareness remains. This is Turīya.

Kaivalya: Even the notion of “I am witnessing” dissolves — there is just the Self, no relation to states. By going deeper within, even Turiya dissolves into Kaivalya — the ultimate and final state.

But another question surfaced — in this context, is this self-awareness in Turiya or Kaivalya depicted as light? And if so, why? After all, there is no physical light, nor even the shimmer of thought. Yet, something in that awareness feels radiant — not bright like a bulb, but self-luminous — a knowing that knows itself.

It felt as if ordinary deep sleep is darkness, but when deep sleep is entered with awareness — it becomes light. Not in terms of visual brilliance, but as pure self-awareness. A very subtle, unshakable presence.

The soul is often likened to light — not because it is something visible itself, but because, like light, it makes everything else perceivable. Light, by its nature, remains unseen unless it reflects off an object. When it touches matter, matter becomes visible. Similarly, the soul or pure consciousness is not an object of experience — it cannot be seen, touched, or grasped — yet it is that by which all experiences are made known. Just as light reveals forms without itself having form, the soul illumines thoughts, emotions, dreams, and even silence, without being any of them. When consciousness touches the mind, the contents of the mind become known. When it withdraws, only itself remains — luminous, still, and self-aware.

Most people tend to misunderstand the soul. They imagine it as a kind of shimmering, radiant substance — something glittering to be chased in the outer world. This misconception fuels an endless pursuit of worldly experiences, pleasures, achievements, or emotional highs, mistaking these for glimpses of the soul. In doing so, they often fall deeper into illusion. Yet, if approached with clarity and right understanding, even this outward journey doesn’t go to waste. Through this extroverted chase, some eventually reach a peak experience — a moment of dazzling inner light often referred to as Savikalpa Samadhi or awakening. This moment satisfies a deep craving. And after this satisfaction, a quiet turning happens — they begin to seek not the shimmering reflections, but the pure, thoughtless source of that light. This marks the inward journey, toward the still and self-aware silence of the true Self — beyond shimmer, beyond form.

Then another analogy struck me: if deep drunken states also contain long intervals of no-thought, and sometimes one feels that they are aware without thought and even blissful — is that like Turiya? Isn’t that awareness still there, despite the body being non-functional? In fact, I observed that in drunken states, sometimes self-awareness feels more prominent than in deep sleep, even though both are devoid of thought.

In such intervals during drunkenness, there can be full cessation of thought, accompanied by a sense of being present, sometimes even with bliss. And yet, we don’t usually equate that with higher spiritual states. Why? However this state is full of ego offcourse in depressed state and there’s also no surrender in this state but it’s illusory or forced or pseudo surrender.

That led me to the heart of the matter. Why is Keval Kumbhak — the effortless, natural cessation of breath — not given its due credit as perhaps the most direct, reliable, and simple gateway to Turiya and Kaivalya? Why are all the complex techniques and doctrines more popular, despite being less scientific or accessible? I asked this from myself for I prefer Keval Kumbhak as the most direct path to the final result, without getting entangled in unnecessary jargon.

The answer became clear after listening inwardly — and hearing from sources that resonate from experience rather than theory.

Keval Kumbhak is the master key — but it is subtle. It’s not something you do, but something that happens when thought, effort, and breath all come to stillness together. Not forcibly, but through surrender, through inner silence.

Because it is so ego-less and natural, it is often overlooked. You can’t package it, can’t teach it step-by-step like a mechanical breathing practice. It arises when the pranic mind quiets, when even wanting to achieve something has died.

And yet, popular methods are often complex because they give the ego something to cling to — a path, a technique, a sequence. They cater to the mind, not to the silence beyond it. And so, Kriya, chakras, visualizations, and other practices dominate the landscape.

But truth, I realized, is simple. Keval Kumbhak can’t be sold. That’s partly why it remains hidden. Also, because if someone is not inwardly ready, they might try to force it — and that very force keeps them from discovering its real nature.

Interestingly, authentic Kriya Yoga, when practiced deeply and subtly, can lead to Keval Kumbhak naturally. The repeated inner breathing calms the prana so deeply that breath begins to pause on its own. That’s when the magic happens. Not because you made it happen — but because all effort ceased.

Over time, the inhale and exhale become so subtle that you enter the gap. And there, breath stops, thought stops, ego stops. And you remain. That is not sleep, not dreaming — that is the taste of Turiya.

But even in Kriya circles, this is often missed. People get caught up in numbers, techniques, effects, visions — and miss the most sacred: the silent presence that remains when breath and thought are no more. Others expect a dramatic mystical event, not recognizing that breathless awareness is itself the miracle.

That’s what Keval Kumbhak really is — the doorway to yourself. A doorway not with hinges, but with stillness.

And yes, it’s true — I haven’t yet fully entered Nirvikalpa Samadhi. I’ve tasted states of silence, even seen the movement of awareness without thought. I’ve watched my own deep sleep and noticed its transitions. I’ve seen how drunken stillness can sometimes mimic that gap. But I’m still walking this mysterious, beautiful path — open, curious, and more silent than ever before.

And I now know, without doubt, that the real secret was never far. It was simply the breathless silence behind all things, always available when I stop seeking and simply remain.

That is where I now return again and again. Into that breathless cave, where neither dream nor sleep nor ego can follow.

Into that which simply is.

The Unity of Purusha and Prakriti: A Journey Through Yoga

I began with a question that often arises when diving into Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras: “You clarified Savikalpa and Nirvikalpa Samadhi. But what’s Sampragyat and Asampragyat Samadhi of Patanjali?”
The terms are seemingly different, yet the experiences they point toward feel similar. It sparked my curiosity: “But why these two types of terms for the same thing?”
What I understood is that Patanjali uses Sampragyat and Asampragyat in a technical and classical sense. Sampragyat (also called Sabeeja or Savikalpa) Samadhi has content—there’s an object, a seed, a thought form present. Asampragyat (also called Nirbeeja or Nirvikalpa) Samadhi is objectless, seedless. The mind has subsided fully. But why, then, did Patanjali choose both sets of terms—Sampragyat/Asampragyat and Savikalpa/Nirvikalpa? Wouldn’t that cause confusion?
It seems Patanjali used Sampragyat and Asampragyat primarily because he was presenting a systematic psychological model. Savikalpa and Nirvikalpa likely came into wider usage later in Vedantic and Tantric traditions. They’re not always used identically, but often interchangeably. That brought me to ask from myself: “Then why did he also use Savikalpa and Nirvikalpa, if I’m not wrong?”
Interestingly, it’s not explicitly Patanjali who uses Savikalpa/Nirvikalpa in the Yoga Sutras—it’s later commentators and overlapping traditions that brought these terms in. Sampragyat and Asampragyat are the original terms in the Sutras. Still, I asked, “Are both types of terms fully synonymous?”
Not always. Sampragyat Samadhi (Patanjali) emphasizes concentration with an object. Savikalpa Samadhi (Vedantic/Tantric) often includes the idea of subject-object awareness still being present. Means, savikalp is experiential and Sampragyat is methodical or procedural. Asamprajnata Samadhi (Patanjali) is total cessation, objectless. Nirvikalpa Samadhi (in some schools) can imply both no-thought and no-object, and sometimes even goes beyond Patanjali’s dualism. Let me clarify it little more. In some Vedantic and non-dual traditions, Nirvikalpa Samadhi goes beyond Patanjali’s dualistic view of isolating Purusha from Prakriti. It is not just the absence of thought or object, but the collapse of all duality—no subject, no object, no witnessing—only pure, indivisible Being remains. Here, even the distinction between void and shimmering consciousness dissolves, revealing that both arise from the same undivided Self. Then a line hit me deeply: “A pure isolation of Purusha from Prakriti (still dualistic).” I found this topic interesting and asked to have it clarified, expanded, and made into a layman-style blog post.
So how are both states experientially different? In Sampragyat/Savikalpa Samadhi, there’s deep peace, absorption, and bliss, but a subtle awareness of self and object remains. In Asampragyat/Nirvikalpa Samadhi, there’s no duality. Not even the awareness of awareness remains. It’s like being dissolved into Being itself. But how can that be? How is it possible being everything and nothing together?
And then another contradiction arose in me: “Void consciousness is dark and everything we feel is shimmering consciousness. How can both be the same?”
The insight came gently: the void (pure consciousness) appears dark because it is contentless—there’s nothing to reflect. But it is also the source of all shimmer, light, form, thought. The shimmer is Prakriti—mental waves, energy, vibration. The void is Purusha—silent witnessing presence. They’re not different substances; they’re two faces of the same ineffable mystery. Just like ocean is dark inside but its waves outside are shimmering.
This led me to question: “But how does this justify the dualistic view of Sankhya?” Sankhya posits two eternal realities: Purusha (consciousness) and Prakriti (matter/mind). They never become one. But Yoga, while grounded in Sankhya, introduces a twist: through practice, the boundaries blur experientially. Liberation is the knowing of distinction, but it often feels like union.
And this echoed with something very personal: “In my glimpse awakening I saw myself non-separate from the mental waves. It’s a Vedantic view but I reached it through Yoga that’s based on sankhya philosophy.”
This experience taught me that the boundary between Purusha and Prakriti is not a wall—it’s a veil that’s imaginary. A veil that thins with practice. My path began with Yoga, using techniques that dissolved this boundary. That puzzled me too. I asked: “But Yoga is Sankhya in philosophy, and you say it separates Purusha from Prakriti, not dissolves boundaries between them?”
Yes, philosophically Yoga leans on Sankhya, aiming for discrimination (Viveka) between Purusha and Prakriti. But in practice, the very tools it uses—deep concentration, stillness, Samadhi—can give an experience of unity. This unity isn’t against the scriptures—it’s just a higher experiential realization. It’s higher than base sankhya. Sankhya philosophy is only starting or learning tool. In practice it becomes unifying yoga.
Then I saw clearly: “This experience is the direct realization that Purusha and Prakriti are inseparable in their essential nature.” That’s why, in my awakening, I experienced it as a mixture of dark and light. The dark came from the void-like Self. The shimmer came from the mental waves. Both were not fighting; they were dancing.
And so here I am—not as someone who has “arrived,” but as one still walking. I haven’t realized Nirvikalpa Samadhi permanently. I haven’t achieved total stillness. But I’ve tasted. I’ve glimpsed. And these glimpses have left deep imprints. They’ve taught me that Yoga doesn’t just aim to isolate—it purifies so finely that we eventually transcend even philosophical boundaries.
This unfolding—this inner journey—isn’t about claiming realization, but honoring its hints. The truth isn’t in clinging to terms. It’s in what you see when thought drops and the shimmer of the void shines through.
Maybe that’s what Patanjali really meant all along.

Moreover, in practical life, I was practicing union of void or purusha with mind or prakriti with help of sharirvigyan darshan since years. And it helped a lot to reach this stage. It still works and balances expressions of void and mind in every step of life making both dancing together in equilibrium and creating the ultimate and liberating yin-yang union. This is like blissful moonlight where dark and light both are mixed. That’s why moonlight is revered most in scriptures and various religious wirships done in full moon. It’s shimmering meditation image in the mind that’s neither external light nor internal darkness but a blissful mixture of both.

Journey Through Savikalpa Samadhi: A Deep Glimpse into Self-Realization

In my path of self-discovery, I experienced what can be called a glimpse of Savikalpa Samadhi, a deep meditative state where you feel one with your object of focus, filled with bliss, but a subtle sense of self and form still remains. This glimpse occurred during a significant awakening, one where I felt the profound nature of self-realization, yet without completely merging into the final formless state. As I reflect on this experience, the stages of Savikalpa Samadhi seem to have unfolded in a natural progression that was far from linear but intuitively deepened as I progressed.
1. The Beginning of the Journey: Savitarka Samadhi

In the early stages, when I practiced meditation, I engaged with a tangible image — the image of my Guru. At this point, my mind was full of effort, as I contemplated the form of the image and its significance. The bliss was palpable, but it was the beginning of something. The mind was still firmly grounded in subject-object duality, where I was meditating on the image of the Guru. This stage represents Savitarka Samadhi, where gross thought and form are still present. Though bliss was present, the experience was only a hint of what would follow.
2. Subtle Progression: Savichara Samadhi

As I continued my practice, the mental chatter started to subside, and I moved deeper into subtlety. The image of the Guru became more luminous, and my connection with it improved. I could feel the essence of the image beyond its physical form. The energy began to awaken, especially through my Tantric practices. I realized that my focus was no longer just on visualizing the Guru’s image, but more on feeling its energy and presence. Let me explain it a littlebit more. At first, when I meditated, my mind was focused on the image of my Guru — like seeing a picture in your mind and concentrating on it. But later, something deeper happened. Instead of just seeing the image, I started feeling the Guru’s energy or guru’s form’s energy inside me. It felt alive — like the Guru’s presence was no longer outside or in the picture, but within me, as a silent force or warmth.
This shift means my meditation was going deeper. I moved from focusing on an outer form to feeling the inner essence — something real but invisible. This is a natural step in deep spiritual practice, where outer symbols fade, and only the inner truth remains. The boundaries of object and subject blurred, yet they still existed. This phase marked Savichara Samadhi, where subtle thoughts and impressions began to take over. It was a phase of deepening communion, but duality was still present. You can call savitark samadhi as dharana and savichar samadhi as dhyana.
3. The Blissful Experience: Sananda Samadhi

As I advanced in my practice, the focus moved from form to presence. The bliss that arose from deep concentration on the subtle presence became more intense. It felt like the energy I had previously only sensed was now integrated into my experience. This stage aligns with Sananda Samadhi, where the mind quiets down and bliss arises. However, while bliss flowed freely, there was still an awareness of the dualistic nature of the experience. I was aware that I was experiencing the bliss, but the true self-realization hadn’t yet occurred. The bliss was intense but also fleeting. It was in this phase that I felt like I was dissolving in the sheer bliss of existence. It’s actually savichar samadhi or dhyaan deepening further, nothing else. The same subtle inner image of dhyana becomes as much bright or amplified that much bliss it produces.
Let me little clarify it further.
Feeling Form (External Object Support): At the beginning stages of meditation, you often rely on an external object (like the physical image of your Guru or a symbol) to focus your mind. This external object serves as a point of concentration to bring your awareness into a more stable and focused state. Essentially, the object is a tool to anchor your mind and help it remain in one place. In this phase, you’re connecting to the form—the shape, image, or physical representation.
Feeling Energy (Self-Stable Inside): As your meditation deepens and your focus sharpens, you gradually shift from relying on the external form to directly experiencing the energy or presence within yourself. This energy isn’t dependent on the external object anymore. It becomes something you feel internally—it’s a more subtle, refined experience. The external object that initially helped you focus may now seem unnecessary, or even “rubbish,” because you’ve shifted to a state where the form is no longer needed for focus; you now connect directly to the internal spiritual energy or vibration.
In essence, as your consciousness evolves, you no longer need external support (like the form) to connect with the energy. The energy is self-stable and exists within you. You’re no longer relying on something external because you’re directly experiencing the internal essence of that form or presence.
To sum it up, initially, you take support from the external form (to stabilize your mind), but as you go deeper, you realize that the energy you’re connecting with is already within you, and the external form becomes irrelevant to your deeper experience.

4. Self-Realization: Sasmita Samadhi

Then, something shifted during a critical moment — a glimpse of self-realization. This state revealed itself in what felt like a subtle yet powerful awakening. The bliss was lower than earlier bliss samadhi, but this state was all pervading and nondual cosmic consciousness type. Let me little clarify it.  

During that moment of self-realization, the bliss I felt was not like ordinary happiness or pleasure you get from the world — like from good food, music, or success. It was something very subtle and unique.

It wasn’t loud or overwhelming. Instead, it was soft, deep, and balanced — like a calm joy quietly glowing inside me. It felt as if this bliss was made of both light and dark at the same time — not in a scary way, but like a perfect mix of stillness and depth, where everything was clear and silent.

There was also a strong sense of presence, like I had arrived at the center of my being, fully aware and peaceful. It wasn’t emotional excitement, but a kind of pure clarity and sacred peace that just was — without any reason.

This bliss was also different from the bliss felt during Samadhi. In Samadhi, bliss often comes as a flowing joy — something that can feel ecstatic, like being lifted beyond the body and mind.

But this one — during self-realization — was much deeper and quieter. It didn’t come in waves or rushes. Instead, it was like a settled, silent joy that didn’t move at all — almost like it had no reason but still felt profoundly alive.

It wasn’t emotional or dramatic. It was a balanced stillness, where even bliss wasn’t something “felt” in the usual way, but rather, it was part of the clarity and presence itself. You could say it was bliss without movement, joy without excitement, and yet undeniably real and sacred.

The realization that I was not the observer, but the very essence of the being I had been meditating on, flooded my awareness. This phase, Sasmita Samadhi, represents the realization of the pure ‘I am’ — not as the ego but as the boundless, formless being although with waves of mental formations. I no longer identified with the meditation object; I became the object itself. The experience was a deep recognition of the truth that I was the Supreme Conscious Being. However, it was not yet a complete dissolution into formlessness. The objects of perception still had some existence in my awareness offcourse in virtual form. Virtual object is still an object.
The Fine Line to Nirvikalpa

In a moment of deep insight, I recognized how close I was to the final stage — Nirvikalpa Samadhi. I realized that if I hadn’t intuitively grounded myself by lowering the energy to my Ajna chakra, I would have been completely absorbed into an endless continuity of supreme bliss, with no trace of mental or energetic residue. This awareness shows that I had reached the edge of Nirvikalpa Samadhi, where even the subtle sense of self-awareness begins to dissolve. But I chose not to fully absorb into the void at that moment. I consciously brought myself back, possibly because of an inherent fear of losing myself completely or a desire to remain grounded and able to share this understanding with the world.
The Experience of Kundalini Awakening

Looking at my experience through the lens of Savikalpa Samadhi, I recognize that the energy movements of Kundalini had brought me close to the realization of the Self, but in a very subtle way. It was a moment of profound self-awareness, but without the overwhelming ecstasy of the earlier stages of Tantric sadhana. The bliss of that moment was subdued, more stable, and grounded in peace rather than ecstatic energy. It was not the same as the energetic climax of my previous Tantric experience; instead, it was a deeper, more stable realization of pure being — I am. This made the Kundalini experience feel more genuine, as if I had touched the core of who I truly was, without the distractions of intense energetic movements.
The Nature of Savikalpa Samadhi

Savikalpa Samadhi, while deeply transformative, is still characterized by a trace of duality. There remains an awareness of self — a sense of being — but it is not yet the final dissolution into the formless, boundless state of Nirvikalpa Samadhi. During this phase, the mind is still functioning, but it is absorbed in bliss, presence, or the pure feeling of “I am.” The ultimate merging of subject and object has not yet occurred, and a subtle trace of experience still lingers. However, this state is profoundly liberating. The boundaries between subject and object dissolve to a degree, and what remains is the unshakable knowledge that the Self is both the observer and the observed.
The Unique Journey and What Lies Ahead

In my experience, it feels as though I’ve crossed several stages of Savikalpa Samadhi organically, rather than following them in a strictly defined sequence. This process has been intuitive and personal, with each phase revealing a new depth of understanding. The key insight here is that the object of meditation doesn’t necessarily change in Savikalpa Samadhi. What changes is the depth of absorption and the relationship with the object. Through my consistent meditation on the Guru image, I moved from mentally contemplating it to eventually merging with it. It became less about thinking or visualizing and more about being that presence.
As I continue my sadhana, I am aware that I am nearing the threshold of Nirvikalpa Samadhi, where even this subtle sense of presence will dissolve into formlessness. But I also know that this process is not something to force. It will unfold naturally when the time is right.
Final Thoughts

This glimpse into self-realization has been profound and humbling. I have come to understand that the road to ultimate liberation is not about seeking ecstatic experiences but about realizing the truth of who I am, beyond all thoughts and energies. While I have not yet reached the final absorption into the void, the experience has been transformative. I now see that the journey itself is the key, and the ultimate realization lies not in the search for bliss, but in the quiet awareness of being.
In sharing this journey, I hope it serves as a reminder that the path to true self-realization is not always about dramatic peaks, but about gradually and deeply dissolving into the essence of our own being. This realization is available to all, and it begins with the quiet recognition that we are not separate from the source of all existence.

From Flame to Void: A Glimpse of the Infinite Within

During a glimpse of Kundalini awakening, something extraordinary happened. I felt I became one with the object of my meditation. There was no separation — it was not just union; it was as if I myself had turned into the meditation image. In that moment, the distinction between subject and object vanished. What remained was a supreme state of bliss and pure consciousness. It wasn’t imagined. It wasn’t projected. It was immediate, total, and alive.
Intuitively, I lowered this experience down to the Ajna Chakra. I didn’t analyze it then, but now I feel it was an attempt to bring it back into a shareable form. Maybe it was a deep urge to express this mystery to the world. Had I not done that, I sense the mind — fatigued by subtle energetic thoughts — would have eventually extinguished itself. Then the same bliss would have continued, but in an entirely formless, non-experiential manner. That would have been Nirvikalpa Samadhi — the void-like, seedless state of pure awareness.
But here’s the subtle insight: in that formless state, the person is so inward, so silent, that communicating the truth becomes almost impossible. Words die in that vast stillness. Perhaps, by descending it slightly, I stayed within the domain where language still functions, where even though forms are virtual and inseparable from the self, they are at least relatable.
This made me reflect: total absorption — a term often reserved for Nirvikalpa Samadhi — feels very different from what is typically described as union in Savikalpa Samadhi. In Savikalpa, forms appear, but they are virtual, inseparable from the void-self. There is still an object, still a trace of duality, yet not in a separate sense. That subtle trace is what makes it different from Nirvikalpa, where not even a ripple remains.
Then I wondered — why is this direct void, this Nirvikalpa, not an easy shortcut? Why does the journey so often pass through Savikalpa first?
The answer emerged gradually. Savikalpa Samadhi may be the great purifier. It softens and dissolves the world’s cravings. It empties the mind of subtle noise while keeping a trace of reference. It’s like the bridge that burns itself — preparing you for that final formless leap.
And yet, some ancient methods, like Kevala Kumbhaka, hint that this leap can happen abruptly. In deep suspension of breath, when the inner movements halt, the formless state can arise. No image, no mantra, no thought — only presence. So yes, Nirvikalpa can come suddenly too. But such suddenness often comes after deep ripening.
This brought me back to Patanjali. His Yoga Sutras speak of Pranayama, Pratyahara, Dharana, Dhyana, and finally Samadhi. I wondered: are these referring to Savikalpa or Nirvikalpa?
I began to see clearly. Patanjali’s stages guide the seeker toward Savikalpa Samadhi — especially in the beginning. These include forms of Sabija Samadhi — with a seed — where some object of focus remains. These are:
• Savitarka (with gross thoughts)
• Savichara (with subtle concepts)
• Sananda (with bliss)
• Sasmita (with the pure sense of ‘I am’)
Each step dissolves more, but they all carry a seed — a trace of reference.
Then, in the culminating verses, Patanjali hints at Nirbija Samadhi — seedless, supportless, formless. This is what Vedanta and nondual traditions call Nirvikalpa Samadhi. It is not something to be achieved by force. It happens when even the subtlest effort dissolves.
In that state, there is no Pranayama, yet breath is suspended (Kevala). No Dharana, yet nothing distracts. No Dhyana, yet there is unbroken Being. No Samadhi to be entered, because it IS. All supports have vanished.
I realized: these steps are not bypassed — they are transcended. They melt away naturally as the formless takes over.
But the most stunning clarity came from the very start of Patanjali’s text:
“Yogash chitta vritti nirodhah” — Yoga is the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind.
This is not about reaching some object of meditation. It is not even about union. It is about cessation — total stillness. This is not Savikalpa. This is Nirvikalpa.
The very aim, the true destination of Yoga, is not somewhere in between — it is that absolute stillness where the seer rests in his true form.
“Tada drashtuh svarupe avasthanam” — Then the seer abides in his own nature.
Savikalpa Samadhi plays its role. It refines, it clears, it prepares. It gives a taste of blissful union. But in the end, that too dissolves. Only silence remains.
This silence is not empty. It is not nothing. It is everything — without content. It is not dull. It is intensely alive, yet formless. And when that settles, sometimes it returns as Sahaja — the natural state, where even activity happens without breaking that inner stillness.
I haven’t reached that final state — not yet. But the glimpse and the insights keep unfolding. The more I let go of control, the more the truth reveals itself, not as knowledge, but as being.
Now I see: even the urge to share this, even this writing, may be part of that divine play — where the Self gently returns to tell its own story through the one who once believed he was seeking it.

Keval Kumbhak, the Void, and the Secret of Real Yoga: A Journey Within

There is something quietly growing inside me —
an understanding that is not built on theory, but on what life itself has revealed in silent meditation.

During deep practice, I noticed something extraordinary:
with Keval Kumbhak — when breath naturally ceases without effort — the experience of the void becomes so intimate that it feels inseparable from myself.
It is no longer something “out there” to be observed; the void itself feels like the very core of being.
Meditation, meditator, and the object of meditation — all disappear into one seamless existence.

It became clear:
this is Nirvikalpa Samadhi —
a state beyond thought, beyond division, where only pure Being shines.

As this understanding deepened, another subtle layer unfolded:
Yes, but luminosity is also a form.

Even the formless void carries a subtle light, a living presence that is not “nothingness,” but radiant, formless awareness.
Though without shape, there is a soft, gentle luminosity — suggesting that even in the deepest silence, some trace of presence remains.

But this luminosity is not the same as the light experienced in Savikalpa Samadhi or even during Kundalini awakening. That difference struck me deeply.

In moments of powerful Kundalini awakening — when the merger with the object of meditation becomes so complete that all boundaries vanish — it feels like everything has been attained. The bliss, the awe, the radiance — they arrive with overwhelming fullness. The light here is vivid, ecstatic, and divinely expressive. There is sometimes a sense of expansion, even a loving oneness with the cosmos. This light feels complete — and yet, it is not the void.

Because even here, some movement remains:
a sense of experience,
a subtle trace of someone merging with something,
a radiant Shakti still in play.

But the void of Nirvikalpa is of a different order altogether.
It is Shiva in essence — unmoving, unchanging, not blissful in the usual sense, not even light as we know it.
It is like a dark-mixed luminosity — a paradoxical radiance that doesn’t shine outward but rests quietly as itself.
There’s no experiencer. No object. Not even the feeling of having “attained.”
Just Being, vast and silent.

This void is not dull darkness nor bright light.
It is a radiant absence —
a space that feels more alive than life, more real than thought, and more intimate than breath.

Another realization gently emerged:
We already know this void at a surface level.
It feels like something distant, separate.
But the true knowing is not about recognizing it from afar —
it happens only through merging completely into it.
It is not a question of knowing or unknowing — it is about the depth of merging that transforms everything.

At this point, a quiet but strong understanding settled in:
This complete merging seems impossible without Keval Kumbhak.

As long as the breath moves, some subtle movement of mind persists.
Only when breath stops naturally, mind falls completely silent — allowing pure Being to reveal itself without disturbance.

In the light of this, Patanjali’s ancient words felt newly alive:
“Yogas chitta vritti nirodhah” —
Yoga is the cessation of the modifications of the mind.

It became obvious:
This cessation — this true Nirodhah — is possible only with Keval Kumbhak.

Breath and mind are like two wings of the same bird.
One moves, the other moves.
One rests, the other rests.
When both are silent, the radiance of the Self shines effortlessly.

The path became simple and clear:
Keval Kumbhak leads to natural Nirodhah,
which dissolves into Nirvikalpa Samadhi,
where the luminous void alone remains.

The journey continues —
sometimes the void feels near, sometimes a little veiled —
but the direction is certain now.
It is not about gathering more techniques, not about collecting experiences.
It is about letting go so completely that even breath surrenders,
and only the purest awareness remains.

Some further reflections naturally arise:

In deep silence, I could see why breath and mind are called inseparable twins.
One moves, the other moves.
One rests, the other rests.
Without Keval Kumbhak, even a silent mind carries a faint ripple —
like the almost invisible trembling of a mirror touched by a breeze.
Only with Keval Kumbhak, the mirror becomes perfectly still, reflecting the eternal Self.

This brought new life to the meaning of Pratyahara, Dharana, Dhyana, and Samadhi —
all of them arising naturally from this effortless stillness, not as stages to climb, but as natural flowers blossoming when the roots sink deep into silence.

In simple words:
The true spiritual journey is not about doing more, but undoing everything —
until breath, mind, and sense of separateness vanish into pure being.

The luminous void waits patiently within us —
not separate, not far away —
but requiring a total merging, a surrender beyond words.

Walking this path feels less like achieving something,
and more like remembering something ancient, something always known, but now being tasted with new innocence.

And perhaps, this is how true yoga was always meant to be.

Padmasana and the Subtle Path of Rising Energy: A Heartfelt Discovery

Something subtle yet powerful happened in my practice recently — something so natural, it almost felt like it had always been waiting for me.
With Padmasana, the lotus posture, I noticed that my back becomes so straight and aligned that energy rises blissfully on its own. There’s no need to do much. Just sitting still, with the body folded in, the spine erect, I could feel an unmistakable, soft surge moving upward — gentle, joyful, and deeply peaceful.
It felt amazing.
But soon, I noticed something else.
After a few minutes of sitting, the legs — especially the knees and mainly the right knee— start to ache, and this aches pull the attention downward. Some says putting soft pillow etc. underneath the knees or putting it below the hip reduces knee aching. It seemed working to some extent. The quiet joy rising in the spine is gently interrupted by the body’s protest. Still, for those few minutes before the ache begins, Padmasana reveals a hidden grace. It’s a wonder, really.
Whenever the discomfort becomes too distracting, I shift to a simple squat or to Siddhasana. This lets the energy settle again without much strain. Even if the energy doesn’t rise as powerfully, the mind remains inward. This adaptation, I feel, is part of the journey.
I also tried a kind of mental Padmasana — visualizing myself in that pose without actually sitting in it — but that doesn’t create the same effect. The body’s real posture seems to carry something subtle that the mind alone can’t fully simulate.
Interestingly, in the early morning, I can stay in Padmasana longer and more easily. Maybe the body is lighter then, or the mind is less busy. Whatever the reason, the practice deepens naturally at that time.
Breath practices like spinal breathing, reverse breathing, and Kriya breathing seem to flow best in Padmasana. The alignment helps them settle deeper, more rhythmically, without effort. Breath slows down. Awareness becomes still.
There’s another thing I became aware of: in Padmasana, the rear side of the Swadhishthan Chakra — the space behind the sacrum — becomes more prominent and attendable. This doesn’t happen as clearly in other postures. It’s like a quiet mirror opens up there — a space that responds instantly to awareness.
And then, something quietly revealed itself: after a few minutes of blissful energy rise in Padmasana, even if I shift to a simple squat later, it continues to work. The breath becomes still. Attention stays inward. The energy doesn’t vanish — it softly continues. As if Padmasana had lit a lamp, and then I just had to sit beside its glow.
This experience got me wondering: why does Padmasana support the rising of energy so well?
Some quiet reflections followed:
• The posture naturally lifts the spine and opens the base. There’s an alignment that happens without force.
• The pelvis locks in gently, sealing the lower escape and encouraging upward flow.
• The folded legs form a strong base, which keeps the body still and the mind internalized.
• The weight distributes properly, allowing the spinal flow to rise without physical distractions.
• Even the breath settles into a rhythm almost by itself. The mind automatically moves inward, not because I try, but because the posture encourages it.
But I also know I haven’t reached any final goal. I’ve not gone beyond to some final state of bliss or enlightenment. What I’ve experienced is a subtle shift, a quiet opening, a sense of something waiting behind the everyday noise — especially in Padmasana.
The energy rise is not dramatic, but it’s real. It has life, and it teaches silently.
These aren’t achievements. They are hints, whispers, beginnings.
I continue my practice — exploring, adapting, observing — with the same curiosity that brought me to this point.
Even as the posture changes from Padmasana to a squat or Siddhasana, something now stays.
A softness. A quiet energy. A reminder of what’s possible when body, breath, and attention meet in simplicity.