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.
Demystifying Kundalini 