Today, I felt the Kundalini stationed at the navel chakra. I rose a little late, around 6 a.m., and practiced spinal breathing, my Guru-given poses and pranayama, along with some self-devised postures and a top-to-bottom chakra meditation—without holding the breath as daily routine. Soon, enough yogic pressure built up to launch dhyāna.

I sat in vajrāsana, keeping my eyes turned upward toward the eyebrow center, and even beyond—straight up toward the unlimited height of Ekārṇava. The breath gradually became regular and calm, though not completely suspended as on previous days.

The śūnya dhyāna was deep, with occasional flashes of my Guru Nārāyaṇa’s image—alive and radiant. Guru Tattva is not actually outside but within. When one turns inward, it naturally emerges from inside. It is the intermittently appearing image in the mind during dhyāna that keeps the mind from wandering—by focusing it upon itself until it finally dissolves into Brahman. In a way, it acts like a cargo vehicle of the mental world, carrying awareness directly toward Brahman.

That is why many religions give prime importance to the Guru. They design their lifestyles to encourage introversion and dhyāna, allowing a stable Guru-image to form within the mind itself. However, for this process to become truly effective, there must be a suitable person embodying divine qualities—only then can he or she become a true Guru. In the absence of such a living master, divine idols may serve as substitutes, though they cannot compare to a living Guru, who is like an animated idol of God, and therefore far more transformative.

The Guru principle is revered in every sect and religion, but it seems that Sikhism understands the essence of Guru Tattva most profoundly.

I felt that just as Kundalini energy nourishes the chakras within the body, it also nourishes the chakras beyond the body, extending infinitely into śūnya. The same Kundalini that maintains physical vitality also helps transcend the body, merging into the endless expanse of Ekārṇava śūnya.

Today, I gave priority to the nourishment of śūnya rather than to any specific chakra. Still, the intermediate chakras seemed to receive their share of energy naturally whenever it was directed upward toward Brahman. I could sense the energy supporting the area behind the navel chakra along the spine, while the other chakras felt calm and balanced—not blissfully inflamed like the navel center.

Yesterday, my energy had settled at the Anāhata chakra. It had descended gradually—from Sahasrāra downward—each day resting at the next lower chakra. A day earlier, I had also conserved Mūlādhāra energy, which perhaps rose swiftly to the navel. This rapid movement might be due to the role of descending energy; although all energies rise from Mūlādhāra, the descending current seems to return from Sahasrāra like the monsoon rains returning from the mountains. When the forward and returning monsoons (the western disturbance rains) meet over an area, they bring catastrophic rainfall. Similarly, when descending and ascending energies meet at a chakra, they cause its profound activation, often producing a mental upheaval that can be difficult to control at times although quantum darshan helps in it.

In any case, śūnya dhyāna was peaceful. Later, I tried focusing directly on the navel chakra to give it an extra boost. The breath then turned irregular, as if adjusting itself to channel energy into the navel center. When I shifted my focus back to the Ājñā chakra, the breath again became calm. After a few such cycles, I gently ended my dhyāna and stood up to begin my morning routine.

There comes a time in meditation when bliss fades, and only silent awareness remains. I am experiencing this now—no bliss, but a completely still and neutral space. I can’t even call it darkness, because darkness usually frightens or repels one; yet I feel the exact opposite. I find perfect peace there, a deep relief from the agitation of breathing. At first, this may seem like something is lost—but in truth, it marks the maturity of dhyāna.

Earlier, the mind sought experiences—light, warmth, or waves of joy. Darkness felt empty and unsettling. But when the storms of breath and thought finally rest, perception changes. The same darkness no longer threatens; it simply is. Nothing outside has changed—only the seer has.

This is the quiet flowering of awareness: peace without excitement, clarity without effort. Even without inner light or sensation, a subtle luminosity begins to shine—the light of knowing itself.

When this awareness deepens, life feels transparent and gentle. Speech, work, and movement unfold within the same still space that once appeared only in meditation. There is no need to hold awareness—it holds itself. I am still waiting for that stage to blossom within me.

In this simplicity lies the true radiance of dhyāna: not a blaze of visions, but a calm seeing that never leaves, even in the heart of darkness.