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Quantum darshan; Chapter 19 – Parity: The Tilt of Creation

At the very start, the universe was almost perfectly balanced — like a mirror showing the same picture on both sides. It simply means, In the beginning, the universe was perfectly symmetric—there was no left-right distinction between object and image, no real-virtual difference between the two, and although charges, forces etc. were opposite, they were exactly equal, creating a state of complete balance. Every particle, every force, every tiny action had an equal and opposite twin. If the universe had stayed this way, nothing would have moved. Nothing would have changed. Nothing would have existed as we know it.

But the universe didn’t stay perfectly balanced. It tilted. Even a tiny tilt was enough to start everything moving and changing. This small imbalance is seen in two important ways in science:

  1. Parity asymmetry – Some forces in nature, like the weak nuclear force, do not treat left and right the same. Tiny differences here meant that the universe could have direction, that one side could behave differently from the other. The weak nuclear force is the only one that prefers one “handed” direction over the other, breaking the mirror symmetry of nature. This tiny one-sidedness preferred reactions that allowed matter to win slightly over antimatter after the Big Bang, making the very existence of stars, worlds, and life possible. Likewise inside the body, If prana flowed perfectly symmetrically in the Sushumna, meaning equal left and right, equal up and down, there would be no directional impulse—no manifestation of individual experience, no creation of worlds—just pure nonduality, just as perfect parity symmetry would prevent matter from winning over antimatter, leaving the universe empty. This imbalance in the magnitude of prana drives specific emotions and actions. When the upward-moving prana is dominant, a person becomes more spiritually oriented; when the downward prana is stronger, one is more physically inclined. Similarly, greater prana flow in the left channel (Ida Nadi) makes a person more feminine, while dominance in the right channel (Pingala Nadi) makes one more masculine. When prana becomes equal in all directions, the opposing currents neutralize each other, leading to breathlessness in Kevala Kumbhaka or Nirvikalpa Samadhi—a thoughtless pre-creative state, just like the stage preceding the beginning of creation.
  2. Matter-antimatter imbalance – At the beginning, matter and antimatter were almost equal. But there was a tiny excess of matter. This small difference is why stars, planets, and life exist at all. Without it, everything would have destroyed itself in a flash of energy. Likewise inside the body, at the very beginning, the potentials for stillness and manifestation were almost equal: the upward and downward currents in the Sushumna flowed symmetrically, just as matter and antimatter existed in nearly equal amounts. Then a tiny excess of upward flow appeared, creating just enough imbalance to spark individual experience—thoughts, sensations, and life—allowing consciousness to unfold into worlds, while a small excess of matter over antimatter allowed stars, planets, and life to exist. Without this slight tilt, everything would remain in perfect nonduality, like a universe where matter and antimatter annihilate each other completely, or a Sushumna where energy flows perfectly symmetrically, producing no manifestation at all.

Let us rewrite this in further detail. At the very beginning, the universe was almost perfectly balanced, like a mirror reflecting an object — left and right were opposite in appearance but equal and followed the same rules. Although they appear slightly unequal—differing only in direction—they remain identical in their underlying laws and reactions. In other words, both have been said equal with respect to rules obeyed, not appearance. This is called symmetry: even if something looks reversed, its behavior is still predictable and is equal to parent form. But if the universe had stayed perfectly symmetric meaning if particles and their mirror images were equal in number, nothing would have moved or changed. Everything would have cancelled out with its mirror image. Matter and antimatter would have destroyed each other, forces would have canceled out, and creation could not have begun. Treat antimatter as mirror image of matter. A tiny tilt — a small breaking of symmetry of number or force — changed everything. Weak forces began to treat left and right differently, a scientifically proven effect called parity violation, and some reactions slightly favored matter over antimatter — a phenomenon known as CP violation or charge-pairity violation. Matter and antimatter always have opposite charges. Matter is what makes up the universe — electrons, protons, and neutrons — while antimatter is their “mirror opposite,” like positrons and antiprotons. Normally, when matter and antimatter meet, they annihilate each other, producing energy. But in experimental particle decays, there is a slightly higher probability for matter to form than antimatter. Though these differences are extremely tiny, they pile up repeatedly in the early universe, eventually creating a small excess of matter that formed all the stars, planets, and life we see today. Even at the quantum level, particles exist in multiple possibilities, and one outcome becomes real when measured — this is called quantum collapse. Together, these scientifically proven effects explain how the universe tilted, giving direction to galaxies, allowing stars to burn, molecules to have “handedness,” and life to grow. Symmetry alone is stillness, like calm water; breaking symmetry is motion, like a river flowing. Creation began with this first tilt, the subtle imbalance that turned potential into reality, stillness into movement, and possibility into the living, evolving universe we see today. Yet at the deepest level, why nature has these rules — why left differs from right, or matter slightly outweighs antimatter — remains one of the greatest mysteries of existence. The same mystery extends to the body as well: why Ida differs from Pingala, or why the upward surge of energy outweighs the downward flow, remains one of the greatest mysteries of existence. Philosophically, it may be regarded as the growth-oriented wish of the Almighty Supreme.

If we dissect it further, in the universe, symmetry is subtle and sometimes broken. Parity (P) violation shows that nature is not perfectly left-right symmetric — the weak force “prefers” one handedness. Charge (C) violation reveals that swapping particles with their antiparticles (means replacing particles with their antiparticles or in other words charged particle made oppositely charged antiparticle) does not always produce identical behavior and weak nuclear force does not affect them equally. CP violation goes deeper: even after combining a mirror flip with a particle-antiparticle swap means after directional swap and trying to correct it with charge swap, a tiny asymmetry still remains. While P and C can be violated independently, Parity violation (P) was already known in the weak force — it treats left and right differently. When scientists combined parity violation with charge conjugation (C), which swaps particles with antiparticles, they expected the two violations to cancel out. But experiments showed that even this combined symmetry (CP) is slightly violated — meaning a small imbalance still remains. In other words, CP violation means that an imbalance — arising from the combined effects of charge violation and parity violation — still remains, although it is reduced after attempting to correct the parity violation through particle swapping. This tiny leftover asymmetry is crucial, as it helps explain why matter dominates over antimatter in the universe, showing that the cosmos itself carries an inherent, subtle bias at the most fundamental level. In yogic terms, If the asymmetry between the upward and downward prana is balanced by shifting the flow between Ida and Pingala, a subtle imbalance still remains — and this residual asymmetry gives rise to thoughts.

In yoga and the human body, symmetry too is subtle and often incomplete. The two sides of the body — ida and pingala, lunar and solar currents — represent the left-right (P) aspect of our internal energy field. Perfect balance between them creates stillness; imbalance generates movement and evolution. The charge (C) aspect parallels the polarity of emotion and intention — attraction and aversion, desire and renunciation — our human version of positive and negative charge. Yoga gradually harmonizes these forces, yet even after deep purification, a faint residue of imbalance often remains — the yogic equivalent of CP violation. This subtle leftover tendency — neither purely active nor passive, neither fully detached nor fully engaged — becomes the creative bias that sustains individual existence, just as cosmic CP violation sustains matter itself. Without that faint asymmetry, neither the universe nor the yogi would manifest as a living, evolving expression. Hence, the aim is not to erase all imbalance, but to realize its sacred role — the gentle imperfection that allows consciousness to experience itself as creation.

In another analogy, In the beginning, both the universe and a perfectly still mind were in flawless balance—no left or right, no real or virtual, just pure symmetry. Yet, tiny biases—like subtle impulses in meditation or CP violation in particles—created small differences. Normally, perfect balance would erase them, but a slight openness lets them persist, seeding growth: in the cosmos, it became stars and galaxies; in the mind, it becomes evolving awareness. From the subtlest imperfection, the greatest creations arise.

Think of a pot of water. If the pot is perfectly still, the water stays still. Tilt it just a little, and the water flows. That’s what happened with the universe — it leaned slightly, and the flow of galaxies, stars, and life began.

In Indian philosophy, this is like Shiva and Shakti. Shiva is stillness, perfect balance. Shakti is movement, the first tilt, the first action that starts creation. Without Shakti, the universe would remain frozen and silent.

Even at the tiniest level, in the world of quantum particles, things can exist in many possibilities at once. When a particle is measured or interacts with something, one possibility becomes real — this is called quantum collapse. By itself, quantum collapse doesn’t create the universe’s tilt, but it shows how possibilities become reality. The real tilt comes from nature’s small preferences — like the slight favoring of matter over antimatter.

In the human field of consciousness, countless thoughts, emotions, and intentions also exist in superposition — potential realities waiting to be chosen. The moment awareness focuses on one thought or emotion, that possibility collapses into experience — just like a quantum event manifesting from probability. Meditation trains this awareness to become a silent observer, reducing unnecessary collapses caused by mental restlessness. Yet, even in deep stillness, the mind retains its subtle bias — its own version of nature’s tilt — a gentle preference shaped by tendencies (vasanas) and latent impressions (samskaras). The subtle bias within consciousness sustains individuality, propelling life’s continuity from moment to moment. Yoga doesn’t erase this bias but purifies it until the remaining preference aligns with truth itself. Then, consciousness begins to choose effortlessly — not from ego, but as pure intelligence expressing harmony. What once was mental decision becomes spontaneous movement, free of tension or motive. Every action, word, or thought arises as if the universe itself is flowing through the individual. This is quantum darshan — the direct seeing where observer and observed merge, and infinite potentials collapse into form by the silent will of Truth. Life then unfolds naturally, every moment luminous, precise, and whole — not chosen by someone, but happening through the still radiance of awareness itself.

Because of these tiny tilts, the universe works the way it does:

  • Galaxies spin in certain directions. This is reflection of directional preference of quantum world.
  • Stars burn matter, not antimatter. This is like life shines with ascending energy in spine.
  • Life uses molecules with a preferred “hand” (left-handed or right-handed). Amino acids of proteins, the main building blocks of body have left handed twists.
  • Time moves forward, never backward. On paper or equation, it can move backward but in reality, time always moves forward.

Without these tiny imbalances, nothing would grow, nothing would change, nothing would exist. Symmetry is like calm, still water. Asymmetry is like a river flowing toward the sea. Symmetry is silence; asymmetry is life itself.

Everything we see — from the tiniest particle to the largest galaxy — began with a tiny tilt, the first small imbalance that made the universe start moving, growing, and creating.

Similarly, within the human being, perfect balance is pure stillness — samadhi, where all dualities dissolve into calm symmetry. Yet life as we know it arises from tiny tilts within that stillness — the pull of desire, the urge to breathe, the impulse to move, to love, to seek. Just as the cosmos began from a minute asymmetry, the human journey unfolds from the faint imbalance between rest and expression, awareness and activity, Shiva and Shakti. Too much symmetry and one dissolves into stillness; too much asymmetry and one is lost in turbulence. Yoga is the art of keeping this sacred tilt alive — not erasing it, but refining it until it flows in harmony with the universal rhythm. In that subtle dance between silence and movement, the yogi mirrors the cosmos: still at the center, yet ever-creating at the edge.

Awareness at the Anahata Chakra – Healing Through the Goddess Within

I began my yoga practice at 5 a.m. today. The air was still, mind silent, and body ready. After spinal breathing, I moved through guru-given yoga and my own selected set, including chakra meditation from top to bottom — without holding breath. These days I avoid breath-holding to prevent excess head pressure. Yet I’ve realized there’s no real need to fear it; the head has an incredible capacity to bear and balance the force of prana.

Once, during a dream-state gastric uprising, I experienced immense head pressure, momentary choking, and a transient rise in blood pressure — but the body adjusted beautifully. It reminded me that a well-practiced body knows how to balance itself. So, my preparatory yogic routine continued for about an hour and a half — enough to create the internal yogic pressure required for launching into dhyana.

I know this yogic pressure is temporary. It gradually dissolves into the luminosity of dhyana, just like gas slowly burning out from an LPG cylinder. And when that inner fuel finishes, the practitioner naturally returns from dhyana — first through strong internal contractions from lower to upper area of body backside as to facilitate the movement of energy in the three main spinal channels, followed by the gradual deepening of breath. When the breath returns to normal, the eyes open by themselves. The same happened today.

During dhyana, Vajrasana again gave an excellent starting response. Subtle breathing began automatically at the Ajna Chakra and continued for quite long. Yet all along, I felt a kind of sexually blissful senation at the Anahata Chakra. I was including this bliss within my Ajna-to-Muladhara meditation line, so both centers — Ajna and Anahata — were simultaneously satisfied. No other centres seemed power hungry. Later, I shifted my dhyana solely to Anahata. The awareness deepened there, but the main purpose of dhyana — the realization of Shunya (void) — was not completely fulfilled there. So, I again combined both Ajna and Anahata awareness together.

I recall a Kriya Yoga expert once said that “spinal meditation alone can’t grant liberation.” He emphasized that Ajna Chakra meditation includes the whole spinal system. Today, I understood his point deeply — indeed, every chakra of the backbone is reflected within Ajna. Yet, even knowing this, my sensational awareness remained localized at the rear Anahata Chakra, unwilling to move elsewhere, although breathing awareness was on agya chakra.

Yesterday my focus was at Vishuddhi Chakra, where I had a throat infection. That infection cleared today, but the infection and along with it the energy had descended to the chest. This shows how sensitively these inner sensations mirror physical conditions — a subtle diagnostic test and often a healing mechanism. Still, medicines nowadays help more directly, supporting this inner process. In ancient times, diagnosis and healing through awareness given the form of the Goddess held prime importance, as there were not so many worldly facilities available.

As I visualized the Goddess at the Anahata, the rising sexual bliss from the Muladhara seemed to empower Her presence. I could faintly see Her fighting demons — symbolic of microorganisms — within my chest. It felt as if the Anahata Chakra itself had become a Lingam, the real blissful lingam now manifesting only there.

After about thirty minutes, when my legs cramped, I slowly shifted to Sukhasana, minimizing body movement while keeping awareness rooted at Ajna to avoid breaking dhyana. I then sat for another hour, not breaking earlier feeling that Shakti was healing my heart center and its connected tissues.

Towards the end, a magnificent experience unfolded — a clear perception of Shunya, more radiant than yesterday. It felt as though I was seeing the infinite sky directly above, though my head was hardly tilted upward.

Reflections:
The heart center feels open today — calm, luminous, and healing. The Shakti there is gentle yet profound. Awareness no longer seems confined to a point but spread like the sky itself. Every breath now feels like a hymn in the temple of the heart. Moreover, I was quite busy intellectually yesterday, so it seems that heavy intellectual work facilitates dhyana; however, it can also take a toll on the body’s health.

परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर

काफी दिनों से मौन था कविता-मन, आज फिर मन बोला — और कविता बन गई।
परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,
कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर।

मूलकणों ने सबकुछ देखा जो,
कुछ देख रहा है तू।
काम भी सारे करते हैं वो,
जो कुछ भी करता है तू।।
काम, क्रोध और लोभ, मोह,
मत्सर के जैसे सारे भाव।
सारे मूल कणों में रहते,
जैसे दिखलाता है तू।।
वो तो भवबंधन से दूर,
तुझको इसका क्यों सरूर।
परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,
कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर।।

मूल कणों का वंशज है तू,
वे ही ब्रह्मा-प्रजापति।
उनके बिना न जन्म हो तेरा,
न ही कोई कर्म-गति।।
वे ही तेरे कर्ता-धर्ता,
वे ही हैं पालनहारी।
वे ही हैं शरणागत-वत्सल,
रक्षक, स्वामी, और पति।।
अहंकार बिल्कुल न उनमें,
पर तुझको किसका गरूर।
परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,
कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर।।

सृष्टि के आदि में बनते,
परम पिता परमात्मा से।
परमात्मा तो दिख नहीं सकते।
वे ही निकटतम आत्मा से।।
बना के मूर्ति पूजो या फिर,
ऐसे ही चिंतन करो।
सबकुछ कर भी अछूते रहते,
तुम भी ऐसा जतन करो।।
झांका करो उन्हें भी नित पल,
रहो न दुनिया में मगरूर।।
परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,
कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर।।

योग से ऐसा चिंतन होता,
सुलभ किसी से छिपा नहीं।
कर्म ही है आधार योग का,
वाक्य कहां ये लिपा नहीं।।
क्वांटम दर्शन निर्मित कर लो,
अपने या जग हित खातिर।
चमत्कार देखो फिर कैसे,
हार के मन झुकता शातिर।।
मेरा दर्शन न सही पर,
अपना तो गढ़ लो हजूर।
परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,
कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर।।

डाक्टर हो या हो इंजिनीयर,
नियम समान ही रहते हैं।
अच्छे चिंतन बिना अधूरे,
काम हमेशा रहते हैं।।
कर्म से स्वर्ग तो मिल सकता है,
मुक्ति बिना न चिंतन के।।
यूनिवर्सटी शिक्षा दे सकती।
ज्ञान बिना न संतन के।।
उसके आगे सब समान हैं,
गडकरी हो या हो थरूर।
परमात्मा तो पता नहीं पर,
कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर।

🌸 मेरी नई कविता प्रकाशित 🌸

मुझे खुशी है कि मेरी कविता

“परमात्मा तो पता नहीं, पर कण-कण रहता तू है जरूर”

एक अंतर्राष्ट्रीय हिंदी साहित्यिक पत्रिका साहित्य कुञ्ज में प्रकाशित हुई है, जो मूलतः कनाडा से प्रकाशित होती है।

📖 इसे पढ़ें और अनुभव करें:

🔗 https://tinyurl.com/43vucmpp कविता पढ़ें

यदि आपको कविता पसंद आए, तो इसे शेयर करें और साहित्य प्रेमियों तक पहुँचाएँ।

🙏 आपका समर्थन मेरे लिए बहुत मायने रखता है। #कविता #साहित्यकुंन्ज #HindiPoetry #PublishedPoem #InternationalPublication

The Fiery Grace of the Goddess Within

A Morning of Dhyana and the Awakening of the Red Shakti

In spiritual practice, every dawn brings a new mystery. Sometimes the journey unfolds gently — like a soft sunrise — and sometimes it roars like a divine storm within. This morning’s sadhana revealed one such fierce and purifying play of Shakti — a meeting with the Red Goddess who dwells in the Vishuddhi Chakra, cleansing and transforming with fiery grace.

The Dawn of Practice

Today, I rose early at 4:30 a.m., drawn by the quiet pull of dawn. My sadhana began with spinal kriya breathing, followed by Guru-given light postures and pranayama. Then came chakra meditation — top to down — and finally, a few self-learned postures that felt natural in the moment.
By around 6 a.m., the body was prepared, the breath steady, and the awareness ready for dhyana.

Breath at the Ajna — The Seat of Silent Fire

I sat first in Vajrasana. The breath gradually calmed and anchored itself at the Ajna Chakra, mostly at its back side though still connected to the front. The sensation there was unique — a broad, dull, yet blissful inflammation, carrying a subtle sexual tone.

It felt as though that area alone was breathing, consuming the prana, while the rest of the body remained still and breathless. With each inward pulse, it seemed to feed on the breath, performing some mysterious, vital work known only to itself.

My face had turned slightly upward, and the neck tilted back just enough to make my inner gaze face infinite space above. Though the tilt wasn’t physically great, the awareness itself had turned upward in surrender to infinity.
The mind was silent. The dhyana deepened.

The Shift and the Hunger of Vishuddhi

After some time, I brought my head slightly down, eyes closed, gaze fixed in a gentle squint at the eyebrow centre. The meditative current continued unbroken. I occasionally scanned all chakras — each felt fresh and content — all except the Ajna, which alone still hungered for breath.

I let it feed as it wished until, after a while, awareness shifted to the throat region, where the oral and nasal passages meet the back wall. That area, too, began consuming breath, drawing pranic nourishment like a thirsty desert drinking rain.

Then the current descended into the Vishuddhi Chakra. There, the energy found the greatest hunger — something was out of order. The Shakti refused to move further; she had work to do there. She lingered — healing, transforming, purifying.

The Vision of the Red Goddess

As the process intensified, the sexual-type bliss grew stronger. Suddenly, a vivid image of the Goddess appeared within the throat region — fierce and radiant.
She wore red garments, her many hands adorned with red bangles, worn along most of the length of her forearms, clashing and ringing as she struck at tiny rascals — perhaps microorganisms — symbols of impurities. Her lion roared beside her, aiding her divine battle.

Her face was fearsome, glowing with red anger, lips painted crimson, thirsting to devour the darkness. Her long, dishevelled hair flew in all directions as she fought relentlessly. Her terrifying feminine roar in high pitch was heart shaking.

Then the sexual energy from the Muladhara rose to support her — surging upward, fueling her divine rage and purpose. The scene grew ever more intense — the Shakti rising, transforming, conquering.

When I visualized the same Goddess at the Muladhara, she rose in even greater ferocity, bursting upward through the spine. The body, caught in this inner battle, grew exhausted. Dhyana slowly came to its natural end.

A Symbolic Offering

As the awareness returned outward, I found myself instinctively walking to the chemist’s shop and buying Betadine gargle — as if to offer a worldly weapon to the Goddess, aiding her fight within me.
Perhaps she was cleansing not only the spiritual but also the physical battlefield.

Thus ended today’s dhyana — a fierce yet purifying encounter with the Red Goddess of the Throat, the living embodiment of transformation and sacred fire.
Each such meditation reveals that the Divine Feminine is not distant or abstract — she is alive within, tirelessly healing, balancing, and guiding the evolution of consciousness.

Kundalini Through the Mahabharata – Demystifying the Yoga of the Fifth Veda (Chapter 2)

The Mahabharata is often called the Fifth Veda — written for those unable to study the original Vedas. Veda means “supreme knowledge,” and the supreme knowledge can only be the knowledge of God. In this sense, Yoga too is the same supreme knowledge — the direct realization of the Divine.

So, in a deeper way, the Mahabharata is Yoga expressed in the form of stories. Through social, moral, and mythological narratives, it offers the essence of Yoga to the general public. It is like a sugar-coated tablet — one may taste only the sweetness of the story, yet unknowingly receive the medicine of spiritual wisdom. The reader enjoys the unfolding of events, but deep within, subtle seeds of Yoga are sown, silently preparing the mind for higher realization.

Those who read it with an open heart begin to feel its inner power. Even without knowing, they receive glimpses of Yoga. And gradually, they are propelled toward direct spiritual practice, drawn by the unseen force hidden within its verses.

Through this series, I am trying to demystify the Mahabharata step by step — revealing how behind every event, character, and dialogue lies the play of Yogic principles. I hope readers find this exploration not only interesting but also deeply beneficial for their inner journey.

Kundalini Through the Mahabharata – Demystifying the Yoga of the Fifth Veda (Chapter 2)

Continuing from Chapter 1 in the previous blog, we now progress to Chapter 2.

When Ganga Left and Desire Returned: The Silent Law of Separation

Shantanu had questioned Ganga to save Bhishma from flowing into the conscious ocean. In that moment, ego disturbed the divine energy flow. Ganga had already fulfilled her promise—to leave Shantanu if she were ever stopped from her sacred work. Seven luminous streams, symbolizing the seven chakras, had merged back into her waters; the eighth, Bhishma, she raised herself before returning him to his father. When she withdrew, the flow of Kundalini that once danced freely became a memory of bliss in Shantanu’s being—awareness without movement. Instead, it settled into stillness, carrying within it the silent ache of separation from the divine current.

The Loss of the Divine Flow

Shantanu’s grief was not ordinary. It was the ache of a yogi who once felt the current of Shakti and now feels her absence. The river of consciousness had retreated; prana stood still.
That stillness — though peaceful — carries a hidden danger: in stagnation, desire re-awakens.

Satyavati: The Call of Earthly Nature

From that emptiness rose Satyavati, the daughter of the fisherman, born of river fragrance and clay. She was not Ganga’s pure flow but its earthy echo — Maya in tangible form. Fish or fishy means strong ill desire or craving.
Where Ganga rose upward, Satyavati pulled downward, reminding consciousness of its unfinished bond with matter.

When Shantanu longed for her, it was the spirit re-entering the field of duality. Her father’s condition — that only her son may inherit the throne — was not greed but the law of karma: every descent must create lineage, continuity, consequence.

Bhishma’s Terrible Vow

To preserve his father’s longing, Bhishma renounced his own.
That single act became the hinge of Yoga itself — energy choosing duty over desire.
Celibacy here is not denial but containment: the upward redirection of force that once sought union in body now seeks union in consciousness. Bhishma stands as the embodiment of Shantanu’s sexual energy, sublimated after Ganga withdrew. This energy rises upward, becoming holy and pure, giving rise to spiritual qualities such as penance, renunciation, and tolerance and many more.

Bhishma thus stands as retained Kundalini, energy stabilized in awareness. He governs the realm of dharma but never sits on the throne — just as awakened energy rules life silently but never claims ownership.

The Hidden Movement of Consciousness

Ganga’s withdrawal, Shantanu’s longing, Satyavati’s demand, and Bhishma’s vow — together form a single inner event:

  1. Union with the Divine (Ganga)
  2. Loss of Grace and the Return of Desire (Shantanu’s sorrow)
  3. Re-entry into Matter (Satyavati)
  4. Sublimation and Mastery (Bhishma)

Simply put, Bhishma represented the top chakra, while his seven brothers symbolized the lower chakras that were released from emotional bondage as the energy rose through the Sushumna in the form of Ganga. Bhishma himself was not released, because Mother Nature desired that he fulfill many moral and worldly duties in the public interest. Satyavati gave him a further push upward, helping to test and prove his worth. In truth, spirituality flourishes best when balanced with material life, for the latter continually guides the former along the right path. Moreover, the sublimation of energy from the physical to the spiritual plane is aided by materialism itself, since energy or Shakti is fundamentally material in nature.

Each seeker walks through these stages: awakening, loss, temptation, and vow. The river flows on, but its memory becomes the discipline that guides the rest of the journey.

Essence

When Kundalini withdraws, the seeker feels bereft. Yet that loss births Bhishma within — the steadfast awareness that guards the soul’s dharma even amid worldly storms.
Ganga’s absence is not abandonment; it is initiation into responsibility.

In practical life, Nature often grants brief moments of opportunity for spiritual upliftment amidst worldly chaos and duties. These moments invite one to take refuge in Ganga—symbolizing the upwardly sublimated energy of sexual union—which cleanses all the chakras. As the highest chakra begins its perfect purification, worldly temptations appear in the form of Satyavati. At this stage, man forgets to sublimate and raise the sexual energy; instead, he lets it flow downward, like a fishing stream.

The pure awareness established in the highest chakra, though unable to attain liberation, becomes a great worldly saint—like Bhishma. This is Nature’s way of maintaining the balance between worldly existence and supreme knowledge. Ultimately, Nature liberates Bhishma as well, once she is satisfied with his worldly service. After a period of worldly immersion, he again receives Ganga’s companionship and grows spiritually.

Again for some time, he indulges in outward sensual pleasures to test the strength and maturity of his Bhishma-awareness. This cycle continues until man, as Shantanu, becomes old and mature enough to receive Bhishma’s awareness permanently from Ganga, raising it further toward liberation through his yogic wisdom.

An interesting point here is that these mythological figures and stories are eternal, unlike a single human being bound by flesh and a limited lifespan. Bhishma still exists today as the awakened mind, continually nurtured by Ganga as Sushumna— now and forever.

Kundalini and the Eight Vasus: The Secret Descent of Divine Energies

When one reads the Mahabharata through the eyes of Yoga, every myth becomes a mirror of inner evolution.
The story of Ganga and her eight sons—the Vasus—appears as an ancient drama of curse and compassion. Yet within it flows the hidden current of Kundalini Shakti, moving between heaven and earth, spirit and matter.

The eight Vasus were radiant beings of light, guardians of nature’s elemental powers. But once, out of a moment’s desire, they stole the celestial cow Nandini from Rishi Vashishtha’s ashram. The cow was not a mere creature—it was Maya, the wish-fulfilling field of creation itself. By desiring her, the divine energies turned toward possession, and thus, the fall began.

Vashishtha’s curse was not punishment—it was the law of descent. When pure pranic forces seek pleasure rather than purpose, they must enter the limitation of birth. The eight Vasus, once infinite, were destined to experience the density of form.

Ganga, the river of consciousness, took mercy. She agreed to bring them into the world and return them swiftly to her waters.
As she gave birth, each of the first seven sons was immersed back into her flow—symbolizing the seven levels of energy that dissolve into the Source when purified by surrender. These seven represent the seven chakras, released one by one as consciousness ascends beyond them.

But the eighth—Prabhasa, the chief offender—had to remain. He was born as Bhishma, the son who could not be freed. He became the embodied energy, the Kundalini retained—not dissolved, but disciplined. Bhishma’s legendary vow of celibacy mirrors the highest yogic restraint, where desire is transformed into awareness, and energy no longer flows outward but stands still in eternal witnessing.

Thus, in the language of Yoga:

  • The eight Vasus are the eight pranic currents that animate creation.
  • The theft of Nandini is consciousness seeking fulfillment in the external.
  • The curse is embodiment—karma’s necessity.
  • Ganga’s flow is the river of purification, where energies return to their origin.
  • Bhishma is the enlightened awareness that remains in the world but not of it—the realized yogi who lives amidst dharma yet stays untouched.

Kundalini, too, descends and ascends through these very layers. Seven streams rise and merge back into the ocean of spirit; the eighth, the witnessing consciousness, abides on earth as the dharmic flame.

When one reads this story not as history but as inner scripture, Bhishma’s silence on the bed of arrows becomes the silence of the awakened mind—pierced by the arrows of karma yet unmoved by pain, waiting only for the auspicious hour to return to the Eternal Ganga.

Guru Parva Grace and the Deep Descent into Dhyana

Today is Guru Parva — a day soaked in subtle grace. Perhaps that’s why dhyana came with such ease and depth. Truly, Guru Tattva is omnipresent and omnipotent, guiding from within when outer guidance rests.

I woke around 4:30 a.m., calm and receptive. Instinctively began deep spinal kriya breathing for about twenty minutes. Then I read a few blog posts — words that perhaps tuned my consciousness higher. After that, I shifted into chakra meditation, moving awareness from crown to base, up and down for about twenty minutes. The movement of prana created the right yogic pressure — a preparatory current that automatically launched me into dhyana.

At first, I sat in Padmasana, but it remained a preparatory phase. Then I shifted to Vajrasana, and the change was instant — deep dhyana dawned naturally. Maybe Vajrasana truly suits me best. I laughed inwardly: “So, my name must be Premyogi Vajra.”

What followed was one and a half hours of continuous, breathless dhyana.
In the beginning, energy was high in the upper chakras. The in-breath was imperceptible, and the out-breath only faintly perceptible — as if nature herself was drawing energy downward in a balancing act. Gradually, prana descended through Vishuddhi and Anahata, though not distinctly separated. The awareness of subtle pulsations grew clearer in the lower regions — a breath of energy, not air.

A key realization emerged — never force stillness. Allow the body micro-movements to release strain. When I released effort, breathing softened further, and bliss deepened.

My neck bore much strain, holding the head’s weight. Tilting it slightly left eased the flow; then returning to center or right as needed — a gentle, intelligent cooperation between body and consciousness.

Later, when Vajrasana made the limbs numb, I slowly shifted to Sukhasana. Instead of distraction, dhyana deepened further. Sometimes I lowered the head, sometimes kept it upright or tilted slightly upward. Sometimes back full straight with natural curve, sometimes loosening it little. These spontaneous maneuvers tuned the current like a musician refining his note.

For Ekarnava Dhyana, keeping the head gently dropped with closed eyes gazing upward toward the Ajna Chakra worked best.

When Sukhasana tired, I moved into Siddhasana. Here bliss magnified again — energy dipped lower, steady and full. The ankle pressing Swadhisthana, and the other pressing Muladhara, created a perfect circuit and sensational points to concentrate energy more there. The microcosmic orbit activated naturally, the energy revolving in serenity.

Later, I attempted to lift energy back to Ajna Chakra as an experiment, but it felt stressful. The energy preferred to stay grounded, working in silence. So I let it remain, continuing Ekarnava Dhyana as it was. However, prolonged ekarnava dhyana shifts energy up slowly again. It’s good switch to direct energy rather than directly manipulating.

However, in the lower chakras, dhyana became more witnessing than transcendence — not Nirvikalpa, but a subtle purification. Hidden emotional imprints arose as faint, heartfelt memories — gently surfacing and dissolving. It felt like inner cleansing, a self-healing of the soul.

When calls began coming and bathing time approached, I slowly rose. This time, not with repentance — but with deep satisfaction and fullness.

Perhaps this was the fruit of integrating sitting meditation with working meditation in recent days. I noticed a clear truth:

When dhyana is practiced after days of worldly indulgence, the preparatory phase is longer.
When practiced regularly, with no lingering desires, dhyana launches instantly — like a rocket already fueled by purity.

Today’s experience was not just about time or posture. It was about effortless descent into grace — a reminder that Guru Tattva lives within, guiding from breath to stillness, from effort to surrender.

Moreover, after bathing, I had practiced all the remaining major asanas to rebuild the inner energy for the next meditation session during the day. To avoid too much pressure building up in the head, I slightly turned my hands and feet — especially the front parts of the feet — outward and downward, as if pressing the ground with paws during each pose. This simple adjustment had a wonderful effect. It helped the energy move down and kept me well-grounded, preventing any heaviness or excess pressure in the head.

When Breath Dissolves: A Real Experience of Deep Dhyana, Prana Movement, and Silent Awakening

Sometimes I feel a quiet repentance for breaking my breathless Dhyana for small worldly reasons—like taking a meal. Yesterday evening, after many days, I found myself alone in perfect silence, almost like being in a forest retreat.

For the first hour, my breath was irregular, sometimes resembling Kapalbhati. It felt as though the Pranas were adjusting themselves, preparing for breathlessness. I broke this preparatory phase two or three times by standing up, changing asana, or making small neck movements. Once, I even went to the kitchen to check if my dinner had arrived. When the tiffin man called to say his scooty had broken down, I told him not to worry—I suddenly felt grateful, as this delay gifted me more time for Dhyana.

The Deepening Stillness

I sensed that my difficulty in entering Dhyana might be due to sitting in Padmasana, so I shifted to Vajrasana. To my amazement, within fifteen minutes, my breath began to calm and regulate on its own, and Dhyana deepened.

Because the state was still fragile, I remained extra alert—aware that even a slight movement or swallowing of kuf (phlegm) voluntarily could disturb it. As I allowed it to deepen, my legs slowly became numb. I tolerated it patiently and then changed posture to Sukhasana with utmost care, keeping awareness steady on breath and movements minimal. Interestingly, as blood returned to the legs, the Dhyana deepened further.

Soon, my neck began to stiffen. I gently alternated between left, right, and central positions, staying for a while at each position as per guidance of dhyana without losing awareness. This small movement stabilized the Dhyana even more.

The Movement of Prana

It felt as if imperceptible breathing currents were flowing through different chakras—sometimes at the rear Ajna, sometimes Vishuddhi, sometimes Anahata. Later, while in Siddhasana, subtle activity appeared even at Swadhisthana and Muladhara, though faintly. I couldn’t easily focus at the Navel Chakra, though a very slight alignment was felt there too. However, while trying dhyana later on after dinner, energy had seemed focusing more on naval chakra.

It felt as if a blissful yet mildly tired sensation was developing at certain chakras that needed attention. When I focused on that sensation during inhalation and exhalation, both breath and awareness seemed to converge there naturally.

During inhalation, as energy rose from that chakra, my attention simultaneously descended onto it—like the merging of Prana (upward force) and Apana (downward force). I realized this might be what ancient texts refer to as the union of Prana and Apana during deep Dhyana.

When I heard the tiffin man’s voice in the kitchen, I replied without seeing him—calmly, directly, without disturbance. There was still some very light mental activity, but it was stable and non-chaotic, like thoughts moving in slow motion and dissolving soon—either directly or after transforming into two or three subtle thoughts, often of the meditation image or Guru form.

The Silent Ocean Within

I started mental chanting of “Ekarnava,” connecting with the sense of the endless, wave-less cosmic ocean. The vibration of the mantra felt alive and meaningful.

Later, as I tired in sukhasana and again shifted to Siddhasana for grounding energy in the lower chakras, mild fatigue appeared in this asana too after sometime. The call of dinner tempted me to end the session. I finally rose, already grounded and centered, without losing worldly balance.

A subtle repentance followed: why didn’t I just change posture and raise the energy again, instead of ending the Dhyana altogether? Hunger had already faded due to the deep state, and I could have continued longer. But I accepted that perhaps the energy had already been sufficiently expended.

Dinner was light, taken without much appetite—very different from the earlier days when I felt strong hunger after immature Dhyana. It seemed as if the body’s energy for digestion had been diverted toward Dhyana.

Interestingly, I usually enter Dhyana more easily after meals, but this time, in an empty stomach, the state felt more genuine and spontaneous. Taking a meal may make energy forcefully downward and so calming breath and awareness just like artificially. After dinner, I couldn’t re-enter the state, perhaps because the accumulated Yoga Shakti had already expressed itself.

Short vs. Long Immersions

Many yogis say short, regular sittings are better than long, infrequent ones. Yet, occasional long immersions, supported by daily shorter Dhyana, have their unique benefits. This session reaffirmed that balance is key—neither suppression of the body’s needs nor indulgence in them.

That night, I also had faint dreams of talking with subtle beings or spirits—not vivid, and not much memorable but peaceful and meaningful in their own way.

Reflections

Looking back, I realized a few gentle truths:

  • Dhyana never truly breaks; it only shifts form.
  • Body needs are not obstacles, but part of the spiritual rhythm.
  • Repentance arises from attachment and ego; gratitude dissolves it.
  • The movement of Prana among chakras is self-guided, not to be forced.
  • After-effects like calm hunger or subtle dreams are natural signs of internal rebalancing.

A simple reminder arose within:

“Let what was revealed in stillness spread through movement also.”

Every act, even eating or walking, can then continue the same Dhyana in motion.

Diwali Week: A Yogi’s Practical Insights Through Temple Experiences

This Diwali week, after a long journey, I visited my ancestral home and stayed there for several days. It was a joyful time — being again with family, relatives, and friends, celebrating the festival of lights in full enthusiasm. Yet along with the outer joy, many new practical yogic experiences unfolded naturally.

I was so involved in the living flow of the festival — meeting people, travelling, helping family, and feeling the spirit of Diwali — that I could not write them down then. But within those days, in between the busy movements, I received sharp insights that no book or teaching could give. These experiences came in the most natural settings — especially when I got moments of solitude inside the city temples while my family was shopping nearby.

Day 1 – Durga–Bhairav Temple: The Dual Anchor of Meditation

On the first day, after dropping my family at a city shopping complex, I went straight to a Durga temple.
There, in front of the large and powerful idol of Maa Durga, I sat in padmāsana. The moment I closed my eyes, deep stillness descended. Soon, the breath became effortless — almost absent — and I entered Kevala Kumbhak, the natural breathless dhyāna.

At intervals, I opened my eyes and looked at the idol. Every single glance into the serene face of Durga instantly deepened the state again, as if the outer image was helping the inner form stabilize. The image remained alive even after closing the eyes, glowing vividly in the mental screen — not as imagination, but as a living vibration.

In front of Durga’s idol was a smaller statue of Bhairav. When the attention slightly tired or mind became neutral, I gazed at Bhairav’s image instead. Strangely, his gaze and energy acted as another anchor, rekindling the stillness from a different polarity — sharp, grounding, and stabilizing.

Thus, I discovered a beautiful rhythm: when Durga’s compassionate presence began to feel saturated, I turned to Bhairav’s fierce calmness; when that too reached a plateau, I returned to Durga.
It was like alternating currents of Shakti and Shiva, feminine and masculine energy, balancing and sustaining each other — a living demonstration of Ardhanārīśvara tattva.

Perhaps this is the deeper reason why Durga and Bhairav idols are placed together in many temples. For ordinary devotees, it represents protection and blessing. But for a yogi, it becomes a direct energetic mechanism — allowing both polarities of consciousness to support dhyāna.
The ordinary mind may see the idol as an object, but the yogic mind perceives it as a mirror of consciousness.

I realized that idols (pratimā) are not merely symbolic or devotional aids — they are scientific instruments of meditation. For a sincere meditator, the benefit is immediate and measurable: the mind falls into stillness the very moment one connects with the living image. That is direct proof, not belief.

Others, who approach idols only through tradition or emotion, also receive benefits, though subtler and delayed. But to a real yogi, the result is instant — the statue becomes alive, the mind becomes no-mind.

Evening – Shulini Sister Temple: The Silent Pindi and the Deep Breathless Stillness

In the evening of the same day, when my family again went for shopping, I visited Shulini Mata’s sister temple.
The environment was deeply sattvic like earlier temple: gentle movement of people, occasional ringing of the temple bell, mantra chants from distant devotees, the fragrance of burning incense, oil lamps glowing in rows, and from time to time, the conch sound from the priest echoing through the hall.
Each element seemed perfectly tuned to draw the consciousness inward.

The main deity was not a fully personified idol but a stone pindi — a simple mound of stone representing the goddess. Silver eyes were fixed on it, with tiny black dots marking the pupils, and a nose faintly carved in the middle. Despite this simplicity, or perhaps because of it, the image radiated immense power.

As I sat before it, the same Kevala Kumbhak arose again naturally — effortless, spontaneous, and prolonged. The experience was even deeper than in the morning. I remained in vajrāsana for forty-five minutes to an hour. My legs went numb, yet the body felt weightless, pain absent. Awareness remained centered, breath minimal, mind absorbed in the living vibration of the pindi.

That evening, I learned that personification is not necessary for divine connection. Even a symbolic form — if approached in stillness — can become a complete doorway to samādhi.
What matters is the state of mind, not the complexity of the idol.

Day 2 – Shani Temple and Saraswati Painting: The Spontaneous Prāṇāyāma Emerges

The next day, while on the way to relatives’ home, my family again stopped for shopping. I dropped them out of the car, parked it safely, and started searching for a new temple — a change that could help me enter deeper dhyāna again without feeling bored. It made me realize that the more temples there are, the better it is for a seeker; one can keep visiting different temples daily and repeat the cycle once all have been covered. This means it is good, both socially and economically, to build as many temples as possible. That is exactly why we see countless temples in pilgrimage towns. Some people may ask, “Why so many? Why not just one?” But human likings differ — just as there are many kinds of sweets, not only one. The same principle applies here. I found a Shani temple nearby and decided to sit there for a while. The main sanctum was closed, but on the outer wall was a small painting of Goddess Saraswati. I sat on the cool marble floor and used that painting as my dhyāna anchor. As concentration deepened, something remarkable happened: effortless rhythmic breaths began — not forced, not practiced, but arising on their own. Each inbreath was imperceptible; each outbreath carried a subtle sound — like a soft, continuous “gharr” vibration, resembling bhrāmarī prāṇāyāma but much subtler and self-born.

The awareness stayed steady, and the breath pattern continued automatically — a clear reminder that real prāṇāyāma is spontaneous, not mechanical.

Scriptures mention countless types of prāṇāyāma and their benefits, but the essence is often misunderstood. The yogi who practices Kundalinī Yoga eventually discovers that these classical prāṇāyāmas are natural by-products of inner awakening — not techniques to be imitated but symptoms of true meditative absorption.

When energy begins to move naturally through the channels (nāḍīs), prāṇa itself reshapes the breathing pattern according to the need of inner transformation. Trying to imitate these states from scriptures — without the foundation of dhyāna — may give some outer sensations, but they are superficial.
Such imitation can even give illusion of attainment — a feeling that one has mastered all prāṇāyāma — while in truth, the deeper awakening remains untouched.

Therefore, one must understand that the real prāṇāyāma of the scriptures refers to the spontaneous phenomenon arising during deep kundalinī sādhanā, not the deliberate breathing exercises often mistaken for it. I don’t know, but perhaps these superficial forms of prāṇāyāma gradually lead to deeper dhyāna, either in a worldly or spiritual way. One may also become accustomed to them, so that when spontaneous prāṇāyāma arises naturally, it doesn’t come as a shock. Therefore, even these external practices should be taken positively.

Summary Insight

Across all these temple experiences, one truth became clearer:

  • Idols, images, and symbols are not only external aids but also living focal points for consciousness.
  • The feminine and masculine energies (Durga–Bhairav) act alternately to balance the mind.
  • The form of deity — whether human-like or abstract — is secondary; the stillness it invokes is the real prāṇa.
  • True prāṇāyāma, like true samādhi, happens naturally in the state of inner silence.

These few days of Diwali brought me both family joy and spiritual refinement. I returned back with a deep gratitude — for the divine presence that works through simple images, through silence, through breathless stillness, and even through the seemingly ordinary circumstances of daily life.

In this way, the festival of light truly became a festival of inner illumination.

Riding Over Sleep

The very next day, my sleep broke at 2:30 a.m. I left the bed and sat on the ground in asana. The breath was agitated but not as rocket-like as the previous day. After trying for an hour, I did yogasana for the next half hour, followed by spinal breathing. Then I again tried dhyana for an hour — no success, though the witnessing of buried thoughts continued with a sense of bliss. But how can the mind be satisfied with that once it has tasted the deep breathless dhyana?

Afterwards, I ate a bowl of khichari, a ripe apple, and some herbal tea. However, the herbal tea, being strong, caused a little acidity, so I decided not to use it in a strong ratio in the future. Then I sat again for half an hour, but there was not much improvement. The morning light has grown outside. After that, I did chakra meditation on each chakra. A blissful yogic pressure arose, and I felt dhyana ripening. There was some throat obstruction, so I did jala neti. At various moments during the entire sitting since beginning, pranic energy was rushing upward.

Then deep dhyana launched — the breath became very shallow, and there was a partial entry into pure awareness. For a moment or two, the breath stopped completely, with total merging into pure awareness, but it was too transient. Suddenly, the face of a man seemingly practicing distorted tantra appeared with a strange, cursing expression—though silent, it felt as if he were speaking ill behind my back. This vision dislodged me from that dhyana despite my attempt to remain unaffected.

A new understanding emerged — Dictatorial control, even if positive in intent, should not be held in mind toward such selfstyle people. The amazing thing is that it becomes little bit difficult to reopen the pranic channels and flow energy inside them even after just a few days of yogic inactivity or worldly involvement, or both. Moreover, sexual energy had also been drained away to clean and freshly refill the reservoir. This, too, had slightly slowed the upward movement of energy. Truly, successful yoga depends on many positive contributing factors, not just one. Each factor adds gradually, culminating in a unified whole. Like bricks coming together to build a sturdy home, all these elements combine to create the full structure of yoga practice. Let us now pick up the formal yoga blog next.

Riding Over Sleep

There’s something I keep noticing — sleep and yoga feel almost the same sometimes. When I sit quietly, some people around me say I’m not meditating, just sitting and pretending while actually dozing off. They don’t know how thin that line really is.

In a jagrata, during an all-night bhajan or kirtan for Mata or Shiva, something similar happens. You ride on the wave of sleep instead of letting it swallow you. The body is tired, but you don’t collapse. You stay alert through music, rhythm, and devotion. Slowly the boundary between waking and sleep melts. If you manage to stay aware at that edge, you touch a state that feels like Nirvikalpa — awareness without thought, just stillness watching itself. However if one is highly tired, he may sleep too while sitting in meditation pose. Moreover, it is better to meditate at a sufficient distance from such kirtans; otherwise, the loudspeaker’s sound can be disturbing. However, it should still be faintly audible so that its sattvic vibrations can have an uplifting and purifying influence.

Spiritually it makes sense. The repetition of divine names and surrender quiets the usual noise of the mind. Consciousness stays bright though the body is dull. You hover right between wake and sleep — the thin doorway the scriptures call Turiya, the state behind waking, dream, and deep sleep.

Even physiologically it fits. Chanting soothes the nerves, slows the breath, and keeps you relaxed but awake. Sleep pressure builds, yet rhythm and emotion don’t let you slip into full sleep. The brain rests while awareness stands guard — a soft, glowing balance that scientists call a hypnagogic state, and yogis call bliss.

So yes, jagrata can really open that doorway if the inner condition is right. Not everyone reaches Nirvikalpa through it, but the path runs that way.

The Mandukya Upanishad describes this beautifully. It speaks of four states — waking (jagrat), dream (svapna), deep sleep (sushupti), and the fourth one, Turiya. The first three come and go, but Turiya stays untouched. When you are at that sleepy edge during bhajan yet remain aware, you are already brushing Turiya.

Yoga Vasistha echoes the same truth. Sage Vasistha tells Rama that a wise person “sleeps even while awake and is awake even while asleep.” It means a yogi’s awareness doesn’t blink, no matter what the body does. What ordinary people call rest becomes conscious rest for the yogi. The body may be half asleep, yet awareness shines quietly. This is Yoga Nidra or Jagrat Sushupti — wakeful deep sleep, the art of riding over sleep instead of sinking into it.

Now, look at it through the Kundalini–Tantra eye. The state between waking and sleep — jagrat sushupti sandhi — is where prana turns inward. Usually energy flows outward through senses. In sleep it withdraws, but awareness also fades. If, by mantra or kirtan or still meditation, awareness stays awake while energy turns inward, you catch the serpent of sleep consciously — that’s Kundalini entering Sushumna, the central channel. This edge is the real turiya-dwara, the doorway to the fourth state.

During long chanting or meditation, breath evens out, emotions settle, Ida and Pingala — the left and right flows — come into balance, and Sushumna opens. Energy that once fed thoughts now rises upward. When awareness is pure and surrendered, it merges into silent consciousness — Nirvikalpa-like stillness. When awareness wavers, it still brings a wave of bliss or devotion, though not full samadhi.

Tantra says nothing is to be rejected, not even sleep. “Whatever binds you can liberate you, when seen rightly.” Even sleepiness can help if you meet it consciously. At that edge, Muladhara energy melts upward, the Ajna and Sahasrara light up. A tired body with wakeful awareness is fertile ground for spontaneous samadhi. That’s why many saints reached awakening through music, love, and surrender rather than severe austerity — their prana rose gently, effortlessly.

If you learn to watch yourself at the point where waking becomes sleep and stay aware with devotion or mantra, that small passage turns royal — it takes you straight toward Turiya. Nothing to force, nothing to do, just don’t fall unconscious.

The same energy that pulls you into sleep can, when met with awareness, lift you into samadhi.

It all began from a simple feeling that yoga and sleep seem alike. Yet behind that simple resemblance hides a deep secret — both touch the same doorway. In jagrata or devotional wakefulness, sleep stops being an enemy. It becomes a wave to ride — one that can carry you beyond waking and dream into that luminous stillness where only awareness itself remains.