mental-health – Demystifying Kundalini

The Mystery of Spontaneous Dhyana: How Padmasana, Kundalini and Effortless Meditation Led Toward Deep Samadhi

A New Experiential Development in Breathless Dhyana

A new development in my meditation has helped me distinguish more clearly between dhyana that is supported by a particular bodily condition and dhyana that seems to arise and continue by itself. Very early one morning, after doing only a little yogasana practice, I entered a deep, breathless dhyana that lasted about an hour. It was accompanied by the familiar pressure in the head. Because I have observed this relationship many times, I already had the feeling that this state was tied to the pressure and therefore had a definite duration. I expected it to disappear when the pressure gradually returned to normal, and that is exactly what happened. Yet I remained awake despite sleepiness and did not go back to sleep. I then started doing some other left-over asanas, and soon an urge to meditate appeared again. I sat in Padmasana and simply watched the breath. Dhyana soon developed on its own, but this time something was distinctly different: there was no head pressure, no deliberate attempt to produce a special sensation, and the whole process felt spontaneous, relaxed and natural. It seemed as if the meditation could continue by itself rather than depending on a temporary physiological condition.

The Difference Between Pressure-Supported and Effortless Dhyana

This second state became especially interesting because it initially appeared almost self-sustaining. In the earlier meditation, the head pressure seemed to provide a kind of measurable support and I knew that the state was likely to end when that pressure declined. In the new experience there was no such limitation. The mind was not struggling to maintain concentration, the breathing was naturally becoming subtle, and there was an absence of deliberate effort. It therefore felt as though the dhyana might have continued indefinitely if the body itself had not intervened. This seemed to reveal something important: the head pressure may sometimes accompany or support the entry into a particular state without actually being the fundamental cause of dhyana. Dhyana may also arise independently when the mind becomes sufficiently quiet.

When the Body Became the Limitation

The limiting factor this time was not the mind but Padmasana. After about twenty to thirty minutes, the right knee began to ache. I tolerated it for some time because I expected that eventually the hip might rotate sufficiently and take over the mechanical stress from the knee, but that adjustment did not occur. Many times it happen with a feeling. The posture could not be maintained comfortably beyond that point, so I finally changed out of Padmasana and came into a normal squat. An important event followed immediately afterward. The dhyana itself was still present, but the head pressure began to build again. This made the sequence particularly revealing for me. While sitting in Padmasana, the meditation had remained spontaneous and free of pressure. After changing the posture, although meditation continued, the original effortless quality seemed to have changed. It felt as though the spontaneous dhyana had been replaced by a very subtle effort on my part, almost unnoticed, to maintain the state. That subtle effort seemed to create bodily and mental stress, and the head pressure began returning.

Why Padmasana Suddenly Appeared So Important

This experience made me understand more strongly why mastery of asana may matter before deep meditation. Had I been able to remain comfortably in Padmasana, I feel that the spontaneous dhyana could have continued much longer and might have developed into a much deeper samadhi-like state. This gave me a practical appreciation of the traditional progression in Patanjali Yoga. Asana is not merely an exercise to prepare the body; the deeper purpose is to reach a condition in which the body becomes sufficiently steady and comfortable that it no longer demands attention. Patanjali describes asana in terms of steadiness and ease, followed by the relaxation of effort and absorption in the infinite. My experience seemed to illustrate this principle in a practical way: when the posture was stable enough, effort disappeared and meditation became spontaneous; when the posture failed, subtle effort returned and the bodily pressure returned with it.

Padmasana Alone Does Not Guarantee Dhyana

At the same time, this experience also clarified something that can otherwise be misunderstood. I have seen people who can remain in Padmasana for a very long time, apparently almost indefinitely, yet they have not necessarily developed dhyana. Therefore, the ability to sit in Padmasana cannot by itself be equated with meditative attainment. Postural stability may create favorable conditions for dhyana, but it does not automatically produce it. The mind still has to become inward, collected and sufficiently free from ordinary mental movement. In my case the important combination was not simply Padmasana, but Padmasana plus spontaneous inward absorption with minimal effort.

What the Knee Problem May Really Indicate

The knee problem also deserves a practical interpretation. I had wondered whether the pain might indicate insufficient surrounding musculature, perhaps even related to inadequate protein intake, because I notice that when I exercise heavily, especially through activities that strongly involve the knees such as uphill cycling, the knee pain tends to disappear. That makes it seem more like a physical or mechanical problem than a purely meditative obstacle. However, the exact cause cannot be established from this experience alone, and protein deficiency is only one possibility rather than a demonstrated explanation. Padmasana depends greatly on hip rotation, and when the hip does not provide sufficient movement, stress can be transferred toward the knee. Therefore, continuing to tolerate knee pain in the hope that the hip will eventually take over may not be the best way to develop the posture. The real goal should be a posture that becomes stable and comfortable without forcing the knee.

Could Blood Flow Explain the Return of Head Pressure?

One possible explanation I considered was vascular. I wondered whether the vessels compressed during Padmasana might release their stored blood after the legs were unwound, producing a temporary increase of blood flow or venous congestion toward the brain and thereby causing the renewed head pressure. There is a physiological basis for considering posture-related changes in circulation because changes in body position can alter venous pooling, cerebral venous drainage and intracranial pressure. However, the simple idea that blood released from compressed leg vessels becomes “gorged” in the brain is probably too direct. The cardiovascular system constantly redistributes blood, and cerebral circulation is actively regulated. So a postural or hemodynamic contribution is possible, but this particular mechanism has not been established by my experience. Another possibility is that leaving Padmasana changed muscular stabilization, spinal positioning or breathing enough to reintroduce subtle effort, which could itself have contributed to the pressure.

The Most Important Finding: Vastness Without Effort

The most remarkable part of the experience was not actually the pressure. During the relaxed dhyana without head pressure, the sense of the void became more merged with me. There was greater bliss and a stronger feeling of vastness. Instead of simply observing a vast inner space, the distinction between myself and that vastness seemed weaker. This made the experience feel qualitatively different from meditation produced through effort. It suggested that when bodily and mental effort recede sufficiently, the experience of vastness may become more immediate and less object-like. I do not need to decide whether this is physiological, psychological, spiritual or metaphysical. The important point is that the phenomenology was clearly different, and that difference deserves careful observation.

A More Precise Understanding of the Experiment

This experience has therefore given me a useful three-stage distinction. First, there can be pressure-supported dhyana, in which a particular bodily process accompanies the meditative state and seems to limit its duration. Second, there can be effortless and spontaneous dhyana, arising without deliberate production of head pressure and appearing capable of sustaining itself. Third, bodily limitation can interrupt that effortless condition; when posture becomes uncomfortable, subtle effort returns, and the earlier pressure phenomenon may reappear even though meditation itself continues. This makes it increasingly reasonable for me to regard head pressure as a secondary phenomenon that may accompany certain methods or bodily conditions rather than as the essential basis of dhyana.

The Next Step in Understanding Spontaneous Meditation

The most useful future observation is therefore not to force Padmasana to last indefinitely, but to discover whether the same pressure-free spontaneous dhyana can arise in any posture that is genuinely stable and comfortable. That would help separate Padmasana itself from the deeper factor of bodily stillness and ease. If the same spontaneous meditation and sense of vastness arise in a pain-free posture, it would suggest that physical stability, rather than the lotus posture alone, is the important condition. At the same time, there is no need to deliberately force breathlessness or kumbhaka in order to reproduce the earlier state. Natural quieting of the breath is one thing; forcing respiratory cessation is another. The deeper lesson from this experience seems simpler: when the body becomes quiet without strain, and the mind no longer has to manufacture meditation, dhyana may begin to sustain itself. For me, this is becoming a more precise experimental understanding of why the preparation of the body through asana can matter so much for the deeper stages of meditation.

Another Test: Nirvikalp Dhyana in a Simple Squat

I repeated the experiment after doing some specific asanas, and again the potential for dhyana arose strongly. This time I did not use Padmasana but sat in a simple squat for meditation. Soon a deeper, almost nirvikalp-like dhyana developed that seemed to stand between the two earlier experiences. It was neither strongly accompanied by head pressure nor completely free of it. For a few minutes it appeared almost fully independent, arising spontaneously without deliberate effort. Then a little pressure began to develop. To sustain the dhyana for about one and a half hours, I eventually had to use a deliberate tactic of holding the breath, although it did not feel like suffocation. Instead of concentrating on breathing, I focused on what I experienced as the suffocating chakra. The result felt similar to breathing: it seemed to supply kundalini energy to the chakra without requiring ordinary respiration. In this way the pressure gradually accumulated, and by the end of the meditation, when the dhyana opened or released itself, the pressure had become considerable. The state then broke on its own, followed by about ten minutes of spontaneous kapalbhati pranayama to lower the pressure. This experiment again made me wonder whether Padmasana has a special importance. The simple squat could support a very deep and partly autonomous dhyana, but maintaining it for a long period appeared to require additional effort and pressure, whereas the earlier Padmasana experience had produced a more completely effortless and pressure-free state. I therefore increasingly suspect that the distinctive value of Padmasana may lie not merely in sitting steadily, but in its ability to allow the body to remain sufficiently balanced and quiet that deep meditation can continue with much less deliberate intervention.

Shirshasana, Sushumna and Nondual Meditation: Balancing Stillness, Pranic Flow and Head Pressure in Worldly Life

Shirshasana has traditionally been regarded as a major or “top” asana because it reverses the body’s normal orientation and strongly changes bodily awareness. My experience has made me wonder whether familiarity with head-centered sensations may help during meditation, where awareness can sometimes become concentrated around the head. This should not be understood as a claim that increased intracranial pressure is desirable or necessary; the “pressure” I mean is an experiential sensation of fullness, heaviness or activity.

In shoulder stand and Halasana, I have noticed that small changes in position can markedly alter head discomfort. Slightly lifting the head or allowing the feet to touch a wall can change weight distribution and reduce the sensation. This shows me that posture, alignment, support and muscular effort strongly influence subjective experience. Discomfort, however, should not automatically be interpreted as spiritual progress; persistent, severe or unusual head pain deserves attention rather than spiritualization.

This becomes particularly relevant to my practice of nondual meditation, including what I call shavid or quantum darshan, especially during busy worldly days. Intense awareness can sometimes be accompanied by strong head sensations. Daily kundalini yoga postures and breathing exercises seem to complement this by conditioning the body and attention to controlled changes in posture, breathing, muscular effort and internal sensation. I find that this can make intense experiences less disturbing and increase my ability to remain present rather than react to every sensation.

I therefore see kundalini practice less as a search for dramatic energetic experiences and more as preparation, grounding and conditioning. Repeated exposure to controlled intensity may make unusual bodily and mental experiences feel less foreign, although this does not prove that every sensation is caused by kundalini energy.

Yoga and nondual meditation can consequently complement each other without requiring withdrawal from ordinary life. Yoga works through body and breath; meditation works directly with awareness. Work, responsibilities, conversation and stimulation become part of the practice when awareness is maintained amid them.

Most importantly, head pressure should never become the goal. Stronger pressure does not necessarily mean deeper meditation, stronger kundalini or spiritual advancement. The meaningful measure is greater clarity, steadiness and non-reactivity. If a posture causes discomfort, changing or stopping it is more sensible than forcing it. Persistent physical symptoms should not automatically be interpreted as awakening.

For me, Shirshasana and related practices are valuable not because they create a desired amount of pressure, but because they may help the body and attention become familiar with changing sensations. Daily yoga provides a grounding counterpart to nondual meditation: the busy world supplies stimulation, meditation reveals how awareness responds, and yoga disciplines the body, breath and attention. The deeper aim is therefore not greater intensity, but the ability to meet whatever arises—with steadiness, clarity and less reactivity. However, when there is enough stillness, nondual meditation in the midst of worldly activity becomes difficult. It feels almost like water cannot be both completely still and flowing at the same time: in one place there is stasis, while in another there is movement. How, then, can the two truly coexist?

Regarding head pressure, I also experience that a certain initial upward movement or “pumping” toward the head is needed to begin breathless meditation and initiate the flow through Sushumna. With the gaze turned upward and attention resting on the infinite, all-pervading sky as the Self, or Ekarnava, a rise in head pressure may arise together with bliss. This is not experienced as discomfort but as a positive sign of the meditation deepening.
However, if the pressure becomes uncomfortable, awareness can be lowered and expanded beyond the head. The sense of Self need not be extended only upward toward the infinite; it can also be expanded downward and sideways, in all directions. This reduces the head pressure while allowing the Sushumna flow to continue. Once established, the flow can sustain itself for roughly an hour, until, in my experience, the available prana becomes exhausted.

Spiritual Awakening and Self-Realisation: Mental Chaos, Nondual Meditation and Worldly Life

When Inner Calm Suddenly Meets Mental Rush

I have often wondered whether spiritual awakening and self-realisation can ever be accompanied by suicidal thoughts or deep depression. My own understanding became clearer when I looked back at something I experienced during my university days. I had become extremely calm and contained, and I was able to dissolve mental chaos quite easily. The inward movement was becoming natural to me. I was accustomed to silence, observation and the gradual disappearance of disturbing mental movements. Yet, near the end of that period, something unexpected happened. A sudden rush of recognition arose. Profession and family, which appeared to be ordinary parts of life, suddenly seemed to be creating chaos and opposing one another at the same time. It was not simply one particular problem; the whole structure of ordinary life seemed to reveal its contradictions together.
There were actually no clear-cut self-inflicting at that time. Rather, I had become somewhat reluctant about worldly growth. Perhaps this was partly an effect of my nondual philosophy and the way I was working with it. Desires were still there, but they were no longer experienced as cravings. Yet, as I could see in practical life, ordinary desires can be difficult to fulfil unless they become strong cravings in today’s materialistic world. People driven by intense cravings can easily move ahead of those whose desires remain moderate and intellectually restrained. From the outside, therefore, my condition could sometimes look like depression or a lack of ambition. From within, however, it did not necessarily feel like depression. I could feel that, in my own understanding, all was well.
There were also occasions when I realised how easily such a state could be misunderstood by others. Even a casual or playful remark about self-infliction, made perhaps as a kind of warning or expression of frustration, could backfire because people might understand it in a completely different sense from what was intended. That taught me an important practical lesson: never speak casually in such language, because others may attach a meaning to it that is entirely different from one’s own inner meaning. It is also possible that such a condition might have helped me in another way, by bringing more care or attention from people around me. Much depends on the society and the people one lives among. Some societies or individuals may treat a person who appears withdrawn, unsuccessful or vulnerable even more harshly, while others may recognise the difficulty and extend a helping hand. The same outward condition can therefore produce very different consequences depending on how people respond to it.
The experience nevertheless showed me something important. Even a person who has developed considerable inner calm, and perhaps has reached a profound state of awakening or self-realisation, can become temporarily destabilised when an unusually large movement of recognition and mental activity suddenly arises. Inner calm does not automatically mean that one has already learned how to integrate every possible contradiction of ordinary life. That integration may require another kind of training: learning to carry inner freedom into the full complexity of family, profession, desire, responsibility and the material world. Once a person has genuinely experienced and learned to navigate such complexity, it may leave a lasting resilience—perhaps even lifelong—so that the person can remain much less vulnerable to similar disturbances later, even if he eventually steps away from a demanding or struggle-filled life.

In a nutshell, self-inflictive, depressed, frustrated or hopeless moods may arise from unresolved emotions. Awakening and spirituality can help greatly in recognising, processing and resolving these emotions, but they also have their limits. When unresolved emotions accumulate faster than one’s capacity to clear them, the mind can become increasingly burdened and depression may arise. These unresolved emotions leave imprints, or what may be experienced as a kind of darkness over the self, creating a feeling of inner heaviness and even suffocation. In this sense, spiritual practice can help clear the darkness, but when the emotional load becomes greater than the person’s present capacity to process it, even a spiritually inclined person may become temporarily overwhelmed.

I have also observed another tendency in worldly life: a person who carries less mental or emotional baggage may sometimes appear more capable of carrying additional burdens. Others may therefore unconsciously shift some of their own burden onto him, seeking relief for themselves and creating an apparent balance of burdens. But in this process of taking and giving, the extra burden may sometimes become concentrated on the person who was already relatively free. What appears to distribute the burden equally can therefore have the opposite effect, leaving the awakened or inwardly developed person with a load that becomes unexpectedly difficult to lift.

Awakening Does Not Mean That Mental Turbulence Will Never Return

This also changed the way I look at what is sometimes called spiritual purification. Daily cleaning of the mind does not necessarily mean that the mind will become progressively quiet without interruption. Sometimes suppressed thoughts, emotions, memories and contradictions may come into awareness together, often triggered by external conditions. After several calm days, a person may suddenly experience a great rush of thoughts and wonder why everything has become chaotic again. The contrast itself can produce exhaustion, hopelessness, anxiety or even depression-like feelings. But such a phase does not automatically mean that spiritual practice has failed. It can mean that the person has encountered more psychological material than he is presently able to process comfortably.

There is also an important difference between seeing thoughts and being overwhelmed by them. In a stable contemplative process, thoughts may arise without having the same authority over the person. During an overwhelming phase, however, thoughts can become repetitive, emotionally charged and convincing. In such a situation, trying to meditate harder or forcing the mind to become empty may not always help. A Sometimes the better direction is to reduce the intensity of inward practice, return to ordinary activity, maintain sleep and food, walk, remain connected with other people and allow the nervous system to settle. Spiritual practice should not becoms another form of struggle against the mind. For me, a nondual practice such as Sharirvigyan Darshan or Quantum Darshan, applied in practical life, may be one of the easiest and least stressful forms of meditation during such periods. Instead of demanding prolonged inward concentration or withdrawal from ordinary activity, it allows awareness to continue while one is living, working, dealing with family, fulfilling responsibilities and facing the ordinary chaos of life. In this way, meditation becomes less a separate exercise and more a natural way of living.

The Difference Between Spiritual Crisis and Self-Realisation

I do not think suicidal thinking should be regarded as a necessary stage of awakening. A profound spiritual experience can coincide with suicidal thoughts, but that does not make those thoughts a higher spiritual attainment. A person may be undergoing what is sometimes described as a spiritual emergency, where identity, meaning and perception change so rapidly that the psychological system becomes overwhelmed. At the same time, similar experiences can occur with depression, dissociation, mania, psychosis, sleep deprivation or other psychological conditions. Therefore, an extraordinary inner experience should not automatically be interpreted as purely spiritual.

For me, an important point is that realising that the ego is not the ultimate reality does not mean that the body or life should be neglected. Self-realisation is not about destroying ordinary life; it is about changing the way we identify with it. In fact, spirituality can make life more meaningful and stable by giving a person hope, connection and a deeper reason to live. But if spiritual struggle makes a person feel that life has lost all meaning, or that he cannot reconcile his inner experience with ordinary life, it can have the opposite effect. It is also practically clear that spiritual life cannot easily advance without some worldly support. The body needs food, shelter, health, rest and social security, while the mind also needs a reasonably stable environment. Spiritual practice therefore does not exist completely apart from worldly life. Some basic worldly support gives a person the foundation from which deeper spiritual work can continue.

Why an Inward Life Can Become Vulnerable to Sudden Chaos

Looking back, I think there is another important reason why such destabilisation can happen. A person who has become habitual of a very inward and calm life may become highly trained in dealing with mental movements that arise within that controlled environment, but may not be equally trained in living amid external chaos. He may know how to sit quietly, observe thoughts and dissolve inner disturbances, yet have comparatively little experience of simultaneously handling family demands, professional responsibility, friendly chaos, interpersonal conflict, uncertainty and other pressures of ordinary life.

Then, when an extraordinary amount of chaos suddenly arises, the person may be disturbed not because his inner practice was false, but because he had not yet developed enough experience of carrying that inner stability into difficult circumstances. Calmness in the absence of disturbance and stability in the presence of disturbance are related, but they are not exactly the same accomplishment.

Sharirvigyan Darshan as a Bridge Between Inner Life and Ordinary Life

This is where my experience with Sharirvigyan Darshan became important. Instead of trying to escape profession, family, body and ordinary responsibilities, I began living and working according to the principles of Sharirvigyan Darshan. For me, this worked wonderfully. It stabilised me and, surprisingly, did not slow spiritual progress. I felt that the pace of spiritual development became even faster than before, but I also realised that this way of living has its limits. As long as the body has enough energy, one can deploy that energy in both the worldly and spiritual realms together. With advancing age, however, a person naturally has to move more in one direction or the other. Therefore, the spiritual way may gradually become more suitable, although some worldly engagement is still necessary for life. Even then, whatever worldly activity remains can be combined with nondual contemplation, so that the two do not become completely separate.

I think the reason was that ordinary life itself became part of the training. Family, profession, relationships, bodily experiences, desires, responsibilities and social situations were no longer separate from spiritual work. They became the actual environment in which awareness had to function. Instead of learning only how to dissolve mental chaos in a quiet inward state, I was repeatedly exposed to the chaos of life and could use the same understanding to process it.

This creates a kind of training through repeated experience. A person first learns calmness in a quiet environment. Then he learns to retain that calmness while ordinary disturbances occur. With continued experience, he develops confidence that even when something extraordinary happens, mental chaos can arise without necessarily controlling or destroying him. The disturbance becomes familiar rather than frightening.

From Escaping Chaos to Learning How to Dissolve It

This, to me, is perhaps the deeper lesson. The goal is not to create a life in which chaos never appears. Such a life may provide calmness, but it does not necessarily prepare one for the unpredictable intensity of existence. The stronger stability comes when one can remain inwardly centred while life continues to move around him.

Sharirvigyan Darshan, as I experienced it, provided precisely this integration. Instead of separating spiritual life from worldly life, it allowed the two to operate together. I have seen many people leave the material realm in order to become more spiritual, but my approach was almost the opposite: I continued to engage with the material realm while carrying the spiritual realm along with it. I did not see family, profession and worldly responsibilities as obstacles that had to be abandoned. Rather, I tried to bring spiritual understanding into them.

I have seen, for example, a doctor leave his job to become a writer, filmmaker and director around a spiritual figure. My own path was different. I continued with my job while becoming a writer and even got awakening like a spiritual figure. I did not have to leave my professional life for spirituality instead it further grew with this unique nondual philosophy. To me, these things did not appear contradictory. I am not presenting this as an exaggeration or as an achievement to be compared with others; it is simply how I experienced what happened in my own life through this practical philosophy. It may also be that my profession did not carry the same level of responsibility as that of a doctor, whose decisions can sometimes directly affect whether a person lives or dies. Human life is more precious than animal life, and the emotional and moral weight of such responsibility can therefore be much greater. However, I feel that spirituality properly integrated into a physician’s profession should not itself do any harm. If anything, it can strengthen the value placed on human life and make the work more meaningful than when it is approached through purely worldly considerations. If difficulties still arise, they may be due to other factors working together rather than spirituality itself.

Of course, no philosophy or spiritual discipline can make a person completely incapable of being disturbed. Even a highly experienced practitioner can become overwhelmed by sufficiently extreme circumstances. The real achievement is different: disturbance becomes less frightening, less sticky and less capable of reorganising the whole personality around itself.

Thus my earlier experience and my later understanding fit together. I once learned to dissolve mental chaos mainly through inward calmness. Later, by living fully in ordinary life through Sharirvigyan Darshan, I learned something broader: one does not become truly stable by escaping chaos; one becomes stable by becoming experienced in remaining oneself while chaos moves through oneself. Later on, I again shifted from the struggle of active worldly life toward calmer meditation, but now with much better understanding and control. I had already experienced worldly life and its chaos closely, so the inward movement was no longer the same as before. It became a more informed and balanced return to calmness. This may be an important part of the two-way movement between mental purification and worldly engagement, where each strengthens the other and gradually leads toward genuine integration and self-realisation.

Deep Dhyana, Self-Realization and Nondual Awakening: How Witnessing Dissolves Inner Imprints

Deep Dhyana as a Window into the Actual Self

It seems to me that during deep dhyana we are able to live, even if only temporarily, in the experience of our full structure of self, together with its actual state of development. This is not merely an idea about ourselves or a mental image of who we think we are. It is experienced in a subtler and more essential form. At other times, worldly distractions occupy our attention so completely that this deeper structure is forgotten. We continue to live, act and think, but we remain largely outside our actual form. In this sense, I have described the dhyana state as a kind of window into our real being, and ordinary life outside that window can feel almost like a state of existential death. This does not mean physical death or that the self ceases to exist. It means that the deeper dimension of oneself, which becomes directly accessible in deep dhyana, becomes functionally absent from ordinary awareness.

Why the Ancient Teaching About the World and the Soul Becomes Clear in Experience

This makes me think that what the ancient sages said about the world being different from the soul, and about worldly life making us blind to the soul, may be pointing to an experience rather than merely presenting a strange metaphysical theory. In theory, such statements can easily be misunderstood. They may sound as though the physical world is unreal or that the soul is some mysterious supernatural object hidden somewhere inside us. In practical experience, however, the distinction can become much clearer. The world does not necessarily destroy or remove the soul. Rather, our attention becomes absorbed in sensory experiences, thoughts, desires, reactions, identities, memories and external objects, and therefore we forget the deeper structure of our own being. Dhyana reverses the direction of attention. When the outward movement becomes sufficiently quiet, what was previously obscured can become directly apparent. Thus the contrast is not simply between a false world and a true soul, but between world-directed consciousness in which the self is forgotten and inwardly gathered consciousness in which the self becomes perceptible.

The Soul as the Complete Intrinsic State of Being

I do not see the soul as something special or as an additional supernatural substance added to a person. By soul I mean one’s own complete state of being as it exists in itself, without something foreign being newly added to it from outside. Yet this does not mean that the self is completely devoid of external influences. The self bears the imprints of everything it has experienced. These experiences, however, are not necessarily present within the self in the same gross and differentiated form in which they were originally encountered. Experientially, they may exist in a subtle, consolidated and relatively undifferentiated form. Therefore, the self is not an untouched thing standing apart from all experience. It is a being in which experience has been assimilated into a deeper structure. We can say self gets colored according to what it has experienced till date. In deep breathless dhyana, it is same eternal self but it is not pure rather it is individualised by experiential imprints.

From Gross Experience to Subtle Imprint

This gives a different meaning to the distinction between self and non-self. A gross experience that has not yet become assimilated into the subtle structure of the self can appear foreign or non-self. It is something occurring to us from outside in its gross, differentiated form. When experience becomes imprinted and assimilated, however, it becomes part of our own subtle experiential structure. It is not like something physical adheres to self as nothing can stick to void, the true nature of self. Yes, its experience gets somewhat distorted and this distorsion is according to the extent and nature of the external experiences. It is like a illusion. Just as, after revolving round and round for some time, the world around may seem to revolve for a while when we stop, though the world itself has remained stationary as before, similarly, after prolonged experience of the external world, our own self may appear different and foreign, though in reality it remains the same pure own form as before. The movement can therefore be understood as gross experience becoming an imprint, the imprint becoming subtly consolidated, and the consolidated impression becoming part of the self. In this sense, what is non-self is not necessarily everything that originates outside the body or mind. Rather, it is what has not yet been assimilated into one’s own deeper structure of being or pure self form. Everything we experience is, in some sense, our own self, because we can never experience anything other than what becomes present within the self. No physical thing can literally be attached to the self as something separate and then experienced as part of it. For the self to experience something fully, it has to take the form of that experience itself. Yet this self has become partitioned through experience. When an experience exists only as a mental pattern or as a gross external impression, it is experienced as non-self or as something foreign. But when that experience becomes deeply imprinted and assimilated as a change in the feeling and structure of the self, it is no longer experienced as something separate; it has become the self itself.

This may also explain why, after moderate drinking, a person can sometimes experience a temporary sense of joy or relief, as though the outer distractions have been reduced and one comes closer to a feeling of oneself. But what becomes accessible is not necessarily the pure self; it is still the self carrying all its accumulated imprints. Alcohol may temporarily weaken the ordinary mental activity through which worldly distinctions and distractions are maintained, making the underlying feeling of self seem clearer. Yet it does not remove the imprints. In fact, after heavy worldly involvement, experiences that might otherwise have gradually dissolved through witnessing can become more deeply impressed or carried forward as further conditioning. Thus the temporary relief may give the impression that the road has become clearer, while the underlying burden has not actually been removed. It may simply have been carried forward to be released later. Witnessing, in contrast, allows impressions to arise and dissolve without adding the same kind of further burden, so that the self can gradually become lighter, clearer and less partitioned. Actually, the mental noise that arises after worldliness is there to dissolve the imprint of that worldliness through witnessing. The imprint of worldliness has already been registered on the Self. This mental noise arises as a process through which that imprint can be dissolved, particularly when it is witnessed without interference. It is as though the fresh imprint is still loosely fixed and can therefore be released through awareness and witnessing.

If this mental noise is forcefully suppressed by will, continuously drowned out by further indulgence in the world as a means of forgetting it, or suppressed through the consumption of some substance, the opportunity for its dissolution is prevented. Instead of allowing the freshly formed, loosely fixed imprint to be erased through witnessing, such actions may reinforce or preserve it. With time, the imprint can become more deeply fixed and therefore much more difficult to remove. Daily yoga helps to shed fresh imprints from self as soon as they are formed easily. By this self gradually become lighter, clearer and less partitioned because, as the burden of accumulated imprints is shed, the darkness created by those imprints gradually diminishes. The self becomes clearer and begins to correspond more closely with the shimmering, undivided character of the external world as it is directly experienced. What had seemed divided between self and world becomes less sharply separated, not because the self becomes something new, but because the accumulated obscurations that made it appear separate are gradually released. Once this process reaches its full extent, the separation between self and the experienced world becomes completely nil. There is no longer a sense of the self standing apart from what is experienced. In that moment, there may be a glimpse of nondual awakening—a direct self-realisation in which the self is experienced without the partition that ordinarily separates it from the world. This is not the creation of a new self, but the recognition of the same self after the accumulated imprints and obscurations that made it appear separate have fallen away. However, the glimpse of awakening may fade after a few moments. The self then seems to regain its previous imprinted structure, although often in a somewhat lighter form. In my understanding, the sudden glimpse occurs through a strong upward movement of kundalini, which temporarily breaks through the accumulated structure and reveals the nondual state. But a glimpse is not the same as complete purification. If the self has been accumulating impressions through countless experiences over an enormously long period, their complete dissolution may require decades of meditation and witnessing. Awakening therefore need not be regarded as the end of the journey. It can instead be understood as a road marker: a brief direct glimpse of the destination that confirms what lies beyond the accumulated structure, while the remaining work is the gradual clearing of the imprints that still obscure it.

Witnessing Dhyana and the Release of Worldly Imprints

This also explains what seems to happen during witnessing dhyana. The self contains accumulated impressions, and these impressions can arise into consciousness as thoughts, memories, images, emotions, sensations or impulses. When they arise and are simply witnessed, without identification, fresh attachment or resistance, they can pass away. The self is then no longer continually burdened by them in the same way. Dhyana becomes not merely a method of observing thoughts but a process through which accumulated worldly imprints can gradually be released. With their release comes a sense of becoming clearer, lighter and purer. Purification, in this understanding, does not mean adding something new to the self. It means removing or releasing what has accumulated and obscured the self’s own intrinsic nature.

From Purification to the Pure Self of Liberation

The process can therefore be understood as a gradual movement from worldly experience to subtle imprint, from subtle imprint to witnessed thought or feeling, from witnessing without identification to release, and from release to increasing clarity and lightness. The deeper self does not have to be created through this process. Rather, what obscures it is gradually reduced. This gives liberation a particularly simple meaning: liberation may not be the creation of a new or extraordinary self, but the gradual removal of whatever prevents the already-existing self from being experienced in its own completeness. The final state could therefore be described as the true or pure self of liberation, in which accumulated worldly formations no longer obscure one’s intrinsic being.

The Dhyana Window and the Possibility of Continuous Awareness

Seen this way, the dhyana window may be only the beginning. At first, there may be a strong difference between deep dhyana and ordinary waking life. In dhyana, the deeper structure of being becomes clear, and for some time afterward, as an aftereffect of the practice, accumulated impressions may arise into awareness and be released to dissolve. Outside dhyana, however, worldly impressions and distractions again tend to dominate awareness, covering the deeper structure once more. Repeated witnessing may gradually disburden the self and reduce identification with these formations. The possibility then arises that the clarity experienced inside dhyana can increasingly remain present outside it. This is because shimmering world supports clearer self outside too. Spiritual development would therefore not simply mean repeatedly entering a special meditative state, but gradually carrying the recognition of one’s intrinsic being into ordinary life. The dhyana window could eventually become less of a temporary window and more of a continuous way of being.

This also gives a more precise meaning to the old idea that the world blinds a person to the Self. The problem is not necessarily the existence of the world but our absorption in its gross, differentiated experiences. The self carries the subtle impressions of experience, while ordinary consciousness is continually occupied with the experiences themselves. Deep dhyana allows attention to move beyond this gross level and encounter the subtler structure in which one’s accumulated experience has already been consolidated. Witnessing then allows those formations to arise and pass without renewed identification. Gradually, what remains becomes clearer, lighter and less burdened. Whether this final pure self should be understood metaphysically as an independent spiritual reality is a further philosophical question. The immediate experience, however, is simpler: through deep dhyana, one can experience a dimension of oneself that is normally forgotten, and through sustained witnessing, one may gradually become less obscured by what has accumulated upon it. In this sense, liberation can be understood as not becoming something else, but finally becoming fully present as what one intrinsically is.

Third Eye Opening and Awakening: How Breath, Prana and Inner Seeing May Be Connected

The Experience That Led to the Question of the Third Eye

My understanding of the third eye did not begin with the idea of a mystical organ somewhere inside the head. It emerged from observing something much simpler: the difference between sensory experience and purely mental experience, and the remarkable change that can occur when the breath spontaneously pauses. This observation also connects with the larger exploration of sex, breath suspension, kundalini and samadhi, but the present question is much more specific. It concerns what happens to the brightness and continuity of experience when sensory input is present or absent, and why certain states are traditionally associated with the third eye or ajna chakra.

One of the first things I noticed was that there can be a remarkably uniform brightness in ordinary sensory experience even while the breath is running normally. If I look at beautiful scenery, for example, the visual experience remains continuously bright. The breath is moving in and out, yet the scenery does not seem to become darker with every outbreath. The sensory system is continuously receiving information from the external scene, and this continued sensory input appears to keep the corresponding mental formation uniformly alive and bright. The mental image is therefore constantly supplemented by perception itself.

But when the breath spontaneously pauses while looking at beautiful scenery, the experience can become much stronger. The scenery may suddenly feel extraordinarily vivid, stable and blissful. I have referred to this as “breathholding beauty.” The point is not that physically holding the breath creates beauty, but that when the breath naturally pauses, the already beautiful sensory experience can become unusually intense and experiential. The temporary absence of ordinary respiratory movement seems to allow the experience to become more continuous and concentrated.

This observation becomes even more interesting when there is no external sensory object.

Why Pure Thought Reveals the Effect More Clearly

During purely mental thought, when there is no sensory involvement, the darkening effect associated with outbreath becomes more obvious. A thought or mental image has no external sensory stream continuously supplying it with information. There is nothing like the visual scene before the eyes that keeps refreshing the mental formation. The thought therefore has to sustain itself internally, and fluctuations associated with respiration can become more noticeable.

In this sense, sensory experience may conceal something that becomes obvious in purely mental experience. When looking at a scene, the senses continually supplement the mental image. During a thought without sensory involvement, that supplementation is absent. The changing respiratory rhythm can therefore appear more directly related to the changing brightness or stability of the mental formation.

This should be understood as a phenomenological observation rather than an established physiological law. I am describing how the experience appears and the model that arises from it, not claiming that science has established that every exhalation literally darkens a thought. The distinction between experience and its proposed mechanism is important.

Spontaneous Breath Suspension and Uniformly Bright Thought

During energetic ascent, when the breath pauses spontaneously, something different can happen. A mental formation that would ordinarily fluctuate can remain uniformly bright. It can acquire a continuity similar to that of sensory experience, or even to directly seeing something with the eyes open.

This is significant because there may be no external sensory input providing the image. Yet the mental image can remain vivid, stable and continuously present. In the experience, it is as though prana is now doing what sensory input ordinarily does: sustaining the mental formation and keeping it continuously bright.

This gives a possible experiential explanation for why such states can feel like seeing rather than merely thinking. An ordinary thought is something I can know, imagine or construct mentally, but an intensely bright inner formation can have a different quality. It can feel directly experienced, almost as though something is actually being seen. The eyes can remain closed, and yet the experience can have a perceptual intensity comparable to seeing with open eyes.

This is the point at which the traditional idea of the third eye becomes especially interesting.

The Third Eye as Inner Seeing

The third eye does not necessarily have to mean another physical eye or an additional anatomical sensory organ. From this perspective, it can describe the emergence of a mode of inner perception in which prana sustains a mental formation with a continuity and brightness that ordinarily come through sensory input.

Normally, the physical eyes see an external object because sensory information is continuously reaching the brain and contributing to the perceptual experience. In the state I am describing, an internally generated mental image can acquire a similar continuity without depending upon an external sensory object. The experience can therefore resemble direct perception even though the physical eyes remain closed.

This also gives a deeper meaning to the word “awakening.” When a person wakes from ordinary sleep, the physical eyes open and the external world becomes visible. There is a transition from an inward, dreamlike or unconscious condition to a state in which the world is directly perceived. In a somewhat analogous sense, the third eye can be understood as an inner awakening: the physical eyes remain closed, but an internal world becomes directly and intensely perceptible.

The mechanism or process through which this inner “waking up” is experienced can therefore be called the opening or functioning of the third eye. The third eye is not necessarily a separate organ; it is the name given to the capacity for this intensified inner seeing.

Why Ajna Is Called the Third-Eye Chakra

At ajna, there can still be something that resembles an object of perception. There is inner brightness, inner seeing of medtation image, and an experience that can feel almost like direct perception through the senses. This is why ajna is specifically described as the location of the third eye.

The important feature is not merely brightness. Brightness alone would not explain the expression “eye.” The defining feature is the experiential quality of seeing. Something appears before awareness in a way that can resemble an object of perception. It may be an image, a form, a scene or another mental formation, but it is experienced with a directness that goes beyond ordinary intellectual thought.

This experience is also not necessarily mystical. In a broader sense, everyone may have the third eye open to some extent at different times. Human beings constantly experience mental images, thoughts and inner representations without having corresponding physical objects immediately before the senses. Every mental thought therefore has something of the nature of a third eye: it creates an internally experienced object or representation.

The difference is one of degree and intensity. The more a person is intellectually self-contained and inwardly engaged without unnecessary dependence on sensory and worldly stimulation, the more developed this capacity for inner seeing may be. A person who can remain inwardly occupied does not need constant external sensory stimulation to maintain mental activity. In this broad sense, the third eye is not an extraordinary possession belonging only to mystics. It is a capacity already present in ordinary consciousness.

From Ordinary Thought to a Fully Open Third Eye

Every mental thought can therefore be regarded as a very simple form of third-eye functioning. When I think about something that is not physically present, there can still be an internal representation of it. I may see a place in my mind, remember a person’s face, imagine an object or construct an entire scene without looking at anything externally.

Ordinary thought, however, usually does not have the same intensity as external sensory perception. I know that I am imagining it. Its brightness, stability and immediacy are generally weaker than the direct perception of an object before the physical senses.

The third eye can therefore be understood as a continuum rather than an all-or-nothing event. At one end there is ordinary mental imagery and thought. At a stronger level, inner imagery becomes increasingly vivid and independent of sensory support. At the highest level of this particular function, an inner thought or image can become as strong, stable and directly experiential as external sensory perception. In that sense, the third eye is fully open when inner seeing reaches the intensity of actual sensory seeing.

This also explains why third-eye experiences do not have to be dramatic visions. The essential characteristic is the quality of perception. A mental formation may become exceptionally clear without necessarily producing a supernatural event. What changes is the degree to which the inner formation is experienced as something directly seen.

My Experiences of Awakening and the Third Eye

My own experiences make the distinction between third-eye functioning and complete awakening particularly important. I experienced this inner seeing during both of my awakening experiences that were accompanied by self-realisation, and I experienced it for a third time during the temple imagery described earlier. But the third experience was different because the awakening was incomplete, or perhaps more accurately, it was a simple awakening without full self-realisation.

This suggests that the third eye may be closely synonymous with awakening, but the two cannot be treated as completely identical. The third-eye function can occur without complete awakening or self-realisation. There can be inner seeing, extraordinary brightness and a feeling of having awakened internally without the complete transformation associated with self-realisation. However it looks true that the way to full awakening is through third eye. It is like saying that door to awakening of meditation image is lively meditation image itself. When through prolonged and constant meditation it crosses certain threshhold of liveliness it becomes full awakening.

In my experience, the awakenings accompanied by self-realisation occurred at the level of sahasrara. The simple awakening associated mainly with the temple imagery was experienced around ajna, or did not fully express itself in sahasrara. This distinction helps explain why ajna and sahasrara can both be associated with extraordinary inner brightness while still representing different levels or qualities of experience. So third eye opening seems synonym to savikalpa samadhi.

Ajna, Sahasrara and the Difference Between Seeing and Realisation

At ajna, there can still be something resembling an object of perception. There is a seer and something that appears to be seen. The inner experience can be remarkably vivid, but it retains the character of seeing. This is precisely why ajna is associated with the third eye.

At sahasrara, however, the experience can move beyond inner perception. There can be full awakening together with self-realisation and complete nonduality. The issue is no longer simply whether a mental formation is bright enough to resemble sensory perception. The deeper transformation is that the distinction between the observer and the observed can itself disappear.

Therefore, sahasrara should not simply be understood as an even brighter version of ajna. Ajna represents the emergence or intensification of inner seeing; sahasrara, in the experience of full awakening, represents going beyond the separation between seer and seen. There can still be extraordinary brightness, but brightness is no longer the essential point. Self-realisation and nonduality become the defining features.

This also explains why I experienced third-eye-like inner perception during experiences that differed in their degree of awakening. The inner seeing could appear without complete self-realisation. The third eye, therefore, seems to be closely related to awakening because awakening makes inner perception exceptionally direct, but full awakening with self-realisation is something further.

Awakening as an Inner Opening of the Eyes

The word “awakening” itself now becomes particularly suggestive. When a person wakes from sleep, the physical eyes open and the external world becomes visible. The act of waking therefore naturally becomes associated with seeing. In the inner experience, something similar may happen while the physical eyes remain closed.

The difference is that instead of waking into the external sensory world, consciousness seems to wake into an internal world. The mental formations that previously existed only as thoughts or images can become directly perceptible, intensely bright and stable. It is as though the inner eye has opened while the physical eyes have remained closed.

This may be why the language of the third eye and awakening fits the experience so naturally. The physical eye sees objects after waking into the external world; the third eye sees the mental world after an inward awakening. The comparison is not intended to establish that a literal hidden eye exists. It describes the similarity in the experiential quality of becoming awake and seeing.

Thus, the internal mechanism or process that provides this experience of “waking up” can be called the third eye. It is the transition from ordinary mental representation toward direct inner perception.

The Continuum From Thought to Third Eye to Self-Realisation

The whole observation can therefore be seen as a continuum. Ordinary thought already contains a rudimentary form of inner seeing because a mental formation can be experienced without a corresponding external object. Sensory perception is normally stronger because continuous sensory input keeps the mental representation uniformly alive. Pure thought reveals respiratory fluctuations more clearly because there is no sensory supplementation. During spontaneous breath suspension while its work taken up by kundalini, an internally generated formation can become uniformly bright and stable. When this inner brightness becomes strong enough to resemble direct sensory perception, the experience can be described as a fully open third eye.

At ajna, this inner seeing can become particularly prominent, which explains its traditional association with the third eye. It can occur without full mystical awakening and may exist in lesser degrees in ordinary people. In my own experience, however, it became especially clear during awakening experiences. The temple imagery represented a simpler or incomplete awakening mainly associated with ajna, while the experiences accompanied by self-realisation reached sahasrara.

At sahasrara, the process goes beyond seeing. Full awakening with self-realisation and nonduality is not merely the perfecting of mental brightness. It is a change in the relationship between consciousness, the observer and the perceived world.

The third eye, then, may be understood not as a mysterious physical organ but as a name for the awakening of inner perception. Its ordinary form may already exist in every thought and mental image. Its stronger form appears when inner formations become independent of continuous sensory support and acquire exceptional brightness and stability. Its fullest perceptual expression resembles direct sensory seeing with the physical eyes closed. And when awakening proceeds beyond perception into self-realisation and complete nonduality, the experience reaches a different dimension associated, in this framework, with sahasrara.

This makes the traditional expression “opening of the third eye” less mysterious. It can be understood as an awakening of the capacity to see inwardly, first in ordinary mental forms, then with increasing brightness and directness, and finally with an intensity that can resemble external perception itself. The remarkable point is that the physical eyes need not open for this inner seeing to begin. In fact, the paradox is precisely that one can feel as though one has awakened and begun to see while the physical eyes remain closed. However both eyes are not fully equal. Outside is outside, and inside is inside. Therefore, difference is jenuine, still many things are in common.

A Hidden Link Between Yogic Cleansing, the Nervous System, and Deep Dhyāna: Could Ancient Yogis Have Discovered an Unexplained Neurophysiological Mechanism?

For long I have observed that deep meditation, or dhyāna, does not always arise merely through mental effort. It often appears that the body itself participates in preparing the mind for meditation. This repeatedly raised a question in my mind: does the nervous system have a much greater role in establishing dhyāna than we usually recognize? After numerous personal experiences, I have begun wondering whether certain physical sensations, particularly those originating in the throat and upper airway, may help establish the internal conditions necessary for effortless meditation. I do not present this as a scientific conclusion, but as a sincere observation that deserves careful scientific investigation.

Most discussions of meditation describe dhyāna as a purely psychological or spiritual process. Classical yoga emphasizes concentration, purification of the mind, and the gradual awakening of higher consciousness. Modern neuroscience explains meditation through changes in brain activity, attention networks, autonomic balance, and large-scale neural synchronization. It seems entirely possible that both descriptions are observing different aspects of the same phenomenon.

During my own practice, I gradually noticed that certain physical sensations seemed to make entering meditation significantly easier. This was not an isolated experience occurring once or twice. The same pattern repeated itself many times over months and years. Whenever a particular subtle sensation appeared in the throat, meditation frequently became effortless, deeper, and more stable.

Initially I wondered whether dhyāna itself actually deepens with physical sensations. The answer may not be as simple as saying that sensations cause meditation. Ordinary bodily sensations usually distract the mind. However, certain subtle sensations repeatedly appeared to coincide with the effortless establishment of meditation. This suggested that the nervous system itself might be participating in creating the conditions necessary for dhyāna. At the same time, this effect appears to become evident only when one actually sits for meditation after appropriate yogic practices. Without engaging in dhyāna, the benefit seems largely limited to a state of mental calmness and relaxation rather than progressing into deeper meditative absorption.

This led to a further thought. Perhaps certain groups of nerves, when stimulated appropriately, help prepare the nervous system for meditation. Instead of considering meditation solely as a mental event, it may be useful to view it as a neurophysiological state involving the brain, autonomic nervous system, sensory pathways, and consciousness simultaneously.

One particularly interesting observation did not occur only once but repeatedly over many occasions. During periods of mild acid reflux, a subtle scratchy sensation frequently developed in my throat. Although acid reflux itself is certainly undesirable and should never be considered a meditation aid, I repeatedly noticed that this particular throat sensation often made it easier to enter dhyana when I subsequently sat for meditation. Because the observation occurred consistently rather than as an isolated event, it became increasingly difficult to dismiss it as mere coincidence.
Looking back, I also recall that my first prolonged experience of kevala kumbhaka, approximately one and a half years ago, arose unexpectedly while I was sitting at a bus waiting shelter during an active phase of GERD. At that time, a similar throat sensation was present. However, this occurred against the background of an established daily practice of yogasanas, praṇayama, and meditation. This suggests that the throat sensation alone may not be sufficient to produce deeper meditative states. Rather, it may help facilitate the transition into dhyāna only when the nervous system has already been conditioned through sustained yogic practice. In individuals who have not undergone such long-term preparation, similar sensory stimulation may simply produce a calmer, more relaxed state of mind without progressing into deeper meditative absorption. This remains a personal observation and a hypothesis that merits systematic scientific investigation rather than a definitive conclusion.

However, this was not the only experience.

Over time I recognized that very similar throat sensations repeatedly occurred during traditional yogic cleansing practices such as dhauti, kunjal, and sutra neti. Each time these practices produced a mild scratchy or stimulated feeling in the throat or upper airway, meditation became noticeably easier and deeper. This repeated consistency immediately distinguished these observations from a single accidental experience.

The similarity between these different situations became increasingly difficult to ignore. Although the causes differed, the resulting throat sensation appeared remarkably similar, and the meditative response also seemed remarkably similar. Such repeated observations naturally raise important questions about possible underlying physiological mechanisms. It is conceivable that sleepless devotional vigils (jāgran), involving overnight singing and musical worship, may in some individuals produce mild gastritis and throat irritation. It is possible that these physiological changes contribute to a calmer mental state that may facilitate meditation (dhyāna). However, this remains a hypothesis rather than an established scientific fact. It is possible that the traditional advice to cultivate the habit of sleeping less was given for the same reason.

Modern neuroscience provides several possible directions for understanding these observations. The throat, pharynx, upper esophagus, and nasal passages contain rich sensory innervation through the vagus nerve, glossopharyngeal nerve, trigeminal nerve, and related autonomic pathways. Stimulation of these sensory pathways sends continuous information to brainstem nuclei, which in turn communicate with regions involved in autonomic regulation, attention, awareness, emotional balance, and sensory integration.

This does not mean that stimulation of a single nerve directly produces dhyāna. Present scientific evidence does not support such a conclusion. Rather, it suggests the possibility that activation of particular sensory and autonomic pathways may help establish a physiological state that supports meditation more readily. Dhyāna itself most likely emerges through coordinated activity involving multiple neural systems rather than one isolated structure.

These observations also invite a fresh interpretation of classical yogic teachings. Ancient yogic texts consistently describe practices such as dhauti, vaman dhauti, and sutra neti as methods for improving the flow of prāṇa and preparing the practitioner for higher stages of yoga. The traditional explanation uses concepts such as prāṇa, nāḍīs, purification, and energetic balance.

It is possible that these traditional descriptions accurately captured reproducible experiential effects while expressing them through the philosophical language available at that time. Ancient practitioners may have carefully documented what these practices consistently produced in experience without possessing the anatomical or physiological knowledge required to explain the underlying biological mechanisms. Their explanation of improved prāṇic flow may therefore represent the experiential side of a deeper physiological process that modern science is only beginning to explore.

This possibility should be approached with humility. It would be incorrect to state that prāṇa simply means nerve impulses or that prāṇic flow is identical to neural activity. Classical yoga and neuroscience describe reality using different conceptual frameworks. Nevertheless, there may be meaningful points of correspondence between the experiential language of yoga and the physiological language of neuroscience.

From an integrative perspective, one may cautiously hypothesize that yogic cleansing practices improve the physiological conditions supporting meditation by stimulating sensory nerve origins and autonomic neural pathways within the throat and upper respiratory tract. Traditional yoga describes the resulting experience as improved prāṇic flow. Modern neuroscience may eventually describe portions of the same process in terms of neural modulation, autonomic regulation, sensory integration, and altered brain states. These explanations need not compete; they may complement one another.

What makes this idea particularly interesting is not one isolated observation but repeated consistency. Across different situations—including yogic cleansing practices and occasionally other mild throat sensations—the transition into meditation repeatedly appeared easier and deeper. Such reproducibility makes the observation worthy of systematic investigation rather than casual dismissal.

Future scientific research could examine whether controlled stimulation of specific sensory pathways in the throat or upper airway influences the ease with which experienced meditators enter stable meditative states. Researchers could simultaneously study autonomic activity, vagal regulation, functional brain imaging, electroencephalography, respiratory patterns, and subjective depth of meditation. Such interdisciplinary studies could build meaningful bridges between neuroscience, physiology, contemplative science, yoga, and philosophy.

This possibility is not presented as proof of a new scientific discovery. It is offered as a careful observation arising from repeated personal experience, combined with an attempt to understand it using both traditional yogic knowledge and modern neurophysiology. Sometimes scientific progress begins precisely in this manner—with a simple, repeatedly observed phenomenon that initially appears too ordinary to deserve attention.

Perhaps ancient yogis discovered an important experiential principle long ago but understandably described it using the philosophical language available in their era. Modern science now possesses sophisticated tools capable of investigating mechanisms that were previously beyond observation. Whether these repeated experiences ultimately reveal a new understanding of meditation remains unknown. Nevertheless, they raise an intriguing question worthy of serious attention from neuroscientists, physiologists, meditation researchers, philosophers of consciousness, yoga scholars, and sincere practitioners throughout the world. If future research confirms even part of this hypothesis, it may deepen our understanding of how the nervous system participates in preparing the human mind for one of its highest states—dhyāna.

My Inner Dussehra

✨🙏 Happy Dussehra 🙏✨
May this day remind us that just as Lord Rama conquered Ravana, we too can conquer the Ravanas within—ego, doubt, and restlessness—and let them merge into the light of awareness. Wishing you and your family joy, strength, and the victory of truth over all that holds us back. 🌸🔥🌿

Today, on Dussehra, I woke up early around 4 am and sat for dhyāna. The breath was fast, the mind restless, but I chose not to interfere. I just allowed it to flow and kept watching like a witness. After some time, when the sitting felt uneventful, I stood up for water and herbal tea. Once refreshed, I sat again but still no stability came. Then I turned to cleansing practices—jal neti and gajkarni. The water that had slipped into the throat, I drew back up through the nose to clear it. A few sneezes followed, and then with kapalbhati and anulom vilom I dried the remaining water passages. Gentle neck tilts and shoulder rotations released the stiffness.

After this preparation, I again sat for meditation. This time, the mind settled quickly. Breathlessness deepened and I found myself resting in pure awareness, like Narayana in the vast ocean of ekarnava. For half an hour, there was a depth filled with bliss. Later, when family called me to get ready for a visit to the city, I moved from that deepness back into a witnessing state. Breath became minimal, almost absent, while thoughts arose and merged one by one into pure awareness—just like Ravana’s heads burning and dissolving into Rama’s light.

It felt as if my Dussehra had been celebrated inwardly before the outer festival. The inner Ravana—restless thoughts and subtle ego—was burned and offered into the inner Rama—pure awareness and bliss. Standing up, I felt fresh and ready for worldly duties, yet carried within the fragrance of this inner victory.

Festivals hold meanings much deeper than rituals and celebrations. When seen inwardly, they become reminders of our own inner journey, of the battles we fight silently, and of the joy of transformation that blesses not only us but also those around us.

Enhancing Dhyana through Yogic Cleansing Techniques

Recently, I noticed that after performing rubber neti, a distinct sensation persisted along my left nostril passage. When I sat down for dhyana and focused on this sensation, my breath felt partially suspended, and I could observe subtle internal responses. I had also done vastra dhauti, and together these practices led me into a wonderful state of kevala kumbhaka during dhyana. This shows that such cleansing techniques truly support meditation. This heightened sensitivity is likely connected to the internal awareness cultivated through yoga and pranayama practices.

Later, during Vastra Dhauti, I ingested a full-length gauze bandage of about one and a half feet, though I captured its end carefully with my hand to ensure safety. Unlike earlier experiences where I felt resistance from the lower esophageal sphincter, this time it came out easily when I pulled it. I reflected on why the sphincter’s grip was different this time. Physiologically, sphincter tone naturally varies due to factors like relaxation, digestion, hydration, and nervous system state. From a yogic perspective, classical texts describe the resistance as the body’s natural “gate” holding impurities, which can reduce as the body becomes cleansed and the channels more open.

I also considered recent influences on my internal state. About fifteen hours earlier, I had consumed a beverage containing a small percentage of green tea along with herbal components. That night, I experienced strong GERD with momentary suffocation during sleep. The combination of caffeine, catechins, and acidic foods like sour lassi and curry likely contributed to LES relaxation, increased stomach acid, and heightened sensitivity to reflux. Even sleeping with my head elevated 20–25% did not fully prevent the episode, highlighting that LES tone, residual acid, and heightened internal awareness can overpower positional benefits.

This experience reinforced my observation that prana-raising yoga can heighten sensitivity to GERD. Pranayama, Kundalini, and other prana-focused practices modulate the autonomic nervous system — often increasing vagal tone and at times sympathetic activity. These shifts can contribute to transient relaxations of the lower esophageal sphincter and, combined with heightened interoceptive awareness from yoga, may make sensations such as reflux more noticeable. Even a standard wait period of three to three and a half hours after meals does not always prevent reflux for someone with heightened sensitivity. That is why, in Yoga, cleansing techniques such as Vaman and Dhauti are prescribed — they help purify the digestive tract and may indirectly support functions like those of the LES.

I have clearly found that Keval Kumbhak Dhyana helps reduce GERD and gastritis. When I lie down to sleep in a bad mood, feeling bored or stressfully tired, acid often rises, burning my esophagus and throat, and even eroding my teeth. But when I sit for Keval Kumbhak Dhyana, I become cool and refreshed. After such practice, I notice that during subsequent evening or night sleep, acid reflux does not occur. This clearly proves that deep dhyana reduces stress and promotes healthy forward gut motility. I also feel an increase in appetite after dhyana. It means that easy and calm yoga, without strenuous or rapid energy shifts, is better in this condition.

GERD is primarily caused by transient lower esophageal sphincter relaxations (TLESRs), which are neurogenic reflexes mediated through the vagus nerve in the parasympathetic system. Excess vagal activation, often triggered by gastric distension or autonomic shifts, is what induces these relaxations. Constant sympathetic dominance by itself does not usually cause GERD, but it can impair esophageal clearance, slow digestion, and heighten stress-related sensitivity to symptoms, making reflux episodes feel worse. Thus, it is the dynamic shifts and imbalances between parasympathetic and sympathetic activity—rather than a single constant state—that underlie both the occurrence of reflux and the way it is perceived. So, it’s really over-activation or imbalance (too much of either, or rapid shifts between the two) that creates the problem — not their normal physiological levels. In yoga, however, the deliberate play of the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems may often cause surges in either and rapid shifts between both states, which explains why heightened awareness of reflux can occur during intense prana-raising practices. However in yoga, both mechanisms can play a role — sometimes it’s just heightened awareness of normal reflux, and sometimes the practice itself can physiologically trigger reflux through vagal reflexes, abdominal pressure, or autonomic shifts.

I also explored alternatives to reduce such effects while retaining benefits. Non-caffeinated or decaffeinated green tea provides the antioxidants and catechins of green tea without stimulating the nervous system or relaxing the sphincter excessively. Choosing decaf blends or herbal infusions allows for the health benefits without aggravating GERD, making them more compatible with yogic cleansing practices.

Finally, I considered a safety protocol for Vastra Dhauti after reflux-prone days: waiting 24 hours after acidic or caffeinated foods, checking stomach comfort, ensuring well-lubricated gauze, maintaining upright posture, breathing calmly, observing LES response, and monitoring for soreness or burning afterward. This cautious approach, combined with attention to diet, posture, and timing of prana-raising practices, helps sustain the benefits of yogic cleansing while minimizing discomfort or risk.

Morning Dhyana: My Journey Through Nirvikalpa and Heart-Space Purification

Recently, I noticed a new development in my morning sadhana. Immediately after rising from bed, I concentrated on the Ajna and Sahasrara chakras, with subtle awareness of breathing seemingly rising from there. My mind waves began dissolving into a vast background space, leaving a sense of stillness. It felt effortless, as if the nirvikalpa-type dhyana was happening naturally without any prior yoga or preparatory practices.

After about an hour, my awareness shifted downward to the heart area. There, I felt a heavy darkness, which I realized was the emotional weight stored over time. Slowly, emotions and thoughts associated with those impressions emerged into my awareness, making the space lighter. It felt like an inner cleansing, a natural process of emotional and karmic purification.

From a Kundalini perspective, this process shows a beautiful rhythm: first, energy rises to higher centers, giving freedom from thought and and bringing waveless awareness. Then, it naturally descends to integrate higher consciousness into the emotional body. The darkness I felt in the heart was dense energy, now being slowly dissolved. This combination of upward transcendence and downward integration is rare, as many practitioners rise without cleansing the lower centers.

From a psychological perspective, the heaviness in the heart reflected unconscious or repressed emotions. By observing them in awareness, they surfaced without resistance and gradually lightened. This is a natural catharsis — the mind sees what was hidden, allowing tension and stored impressions to dissolve.

This experience made me question whether my usual physical asanas, cleansing techniques, and pranayamas were necessary before morning dhyana. I realized that if nirvikalpa absorption arises naturally, intense or long practices could drain the subtle energy needed for it. Gentle, minimal preparation, however, can support the body and subtle channels without interfering with the natural flow.

My guru had suggested a few practices: Jal Neti, Vastra Dhouti, Vaman, sneezing, Kapalbhati, Anulom Vilom, Sarvottan Asan without stretching, Greeva Chalan, Skandh Chalan, Nabhi Chalan (10 forward + 10 backward), and Sarp Asana. Upon reviewing them, I found them light enough if performed gently, slowly, and briefly. Vaman should only be done when advised or needed for it may be heavy in gerd; Kapalbhati should be mild; movements should be smooth and relaxed.

I created a light, energy-preserving morning prep routine to complement my dhyana: start with 3–5 minutes of gentle cleansing (Jal Neti, Sneezing, Vastra Dhouti), then 4–6 minutes of light movements (neck, shoulder, and core), followed by 3–5 minutes of gentle pranayama (Anulom Vilom and mild Kapalbhati), a short Sarvottan Asan without stretching, and finally 2 minutes of settling into stillness. After this, I enter nirvikalpa-type dhyana, focusing first on Ajna and Sahasrara for 15–20 minutes, followed by heart-space descent for 5–10 minutes to observe and release emotional heaviness. I end with integration and gentle awareness for 2–3 minutes.

The guiding principle is simple: let the dhyana arise naturally and effortlessly. Pre-dhyana practices exist only to prepare the body and subtle channels, not to produce forceful energy. Overdoing movements, pranayama, or cleansing can drain the subtle prana that fuels morning absorption. Consistency and gentleness are more valuable than intensity.

However, this is not always true. Most often, my rigorous energy work with strong āsanas, spinal breathing, and chakra meditation creates such potential in the brain that, after deep nirvikalpa dhyāna within five to ten minutes, I feel the āsanas themselves become perfected. When the same āsanas are practiced for many years, they seem to make the nāḍīs flow better, whereas new or even complicated āsanas do not have the same effect. Of course, these are simple ones like leg lifts, shoulder turns, and similar stretches. Probably, the nāḍīs develop in better alignment with the direction of those habitual āsanas with time. Interestingly, the guru-given effective āsanas did not work as well for me as my own simple stretching poses, which I had been doing for decades. No doubt, the guru’s prescribed āsanas will also become perfected with time, perhaps in an even better way. Thus, time and habit seem to be the main factors. When I am sufficiently tired, simple dhyāna starts by itself; when I am fresh and energetic, energy work leads to better dhyāna with greater awareness.

Through this approach, I am learning to harmonize high consciousness in the brain and subtle emotional purification in the heart. Simple Thokar practice also helps heart a lot. The upward flow gives bliss and waveless awareness, while the downward flow clears the unconscious, leaving a light, integrated, and balanced inner state. Observing my own responses allows me to adjust pre-dhyana practices, ensuring that maximum absorption and minimal energy drain occur every morning.

This journey teaches me that advanced sadhana is not about more effort but about precise awareness, gentle preparation, and letting the natural currents of energy and mind guide the practice. By honoring this rhythm, the heart opens, the mind rests, and the subtle energy supports a consistent and deepening nirvikalpa experience. However, all of this is relative. The definition of effort, energy, and practice may vary from person to person. So the approach is simple: try, observe, and practice — the “TOP” formula.

Harnessing Neti Neti for Deeper Meditation

Sometimes during dhyana (meditation), things don’t unfold as smoothly as we’d like. The breath may remain restless, the body refuses to settle, and the mind continues its habitual wandering. In such moments, the subtle movements of prana—the life force—seem to keep the system agitated. It’s as though the very thing that carries life within us also prevents us from fully resting in that silent space beyond all activity.

This is where the practice of mental chanting, especially neti neti, reveals its quiet power. “Not this, not this”—a simple phrase, yet profound in its effect. Mentally repeating it, not with strain but with sincerity, helps cut through the unnecessary. Every thought that arises, every feeling that pulls attention, every story or identity that surfaces—neti neti gently negates them. Not with violence, but with wisdom. Not this… not this…

I have come to see neti neti as a bridge—especially when keval kumbhak, the spontaneous suspension of breath, has not yet taken over. In those rare and beautiful moments when prana itself becomes still and the breath ceases naturally, no effort is needed. There is no gap to fill. The Self reveals itself effortlessly. Silence becomes solid. Awareness shines by itself, needing no reminder, no pointer.

But this depth is not always available. The body and mind often carry momentum. In such cases, neti neti becomes more than just a mantra—it becomes a companion. A whisper in the background reminding me of what I truly am not, so that what I truly am can gradually become clearer. When breath is not restful, when energy is still moving, the mind tends to seek content, to latch onto something—anything. This is where neti neti becomes a gentle replacement, a redirection away from identification, toward detachment, and eventually toward presence.

What’s unique about this practice is that it doesn’t demand that you believe anything. It doesn’t create a new identity. Instead, it un-builds. It dissolves. It peels away. It respects the structure of your being and only asks you to negate what is not permanent, not peaceful, not you.

Over time, I’ve noticed that chanting neti neti during dhyana not only helps quiet the mind, but also creates a subtle sense of inner space—like the difference between a cluttered room and one with just a mat and silence. This space doesn’t arrive by force. It unfolds gradually, like dawn. And when the space is finally there, awareness can relax into itself. Breath may still be moving, prana may still dance, but the grip of it weakens.

Of course, neti neti is not a mechanical technique. It is alive. It responds to sincerity, not repetition. When practiced with mindfulness and simplicity, it becomes a living pointer to the reality that is always here, just beneath the noise.

Whether prana is dancing or resting, whether the breath is moving or suspended—neti neti remains a quiet, humble companion on the path to the Self.

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The Most Important Finding: Vastness Without Effort

A More Precise Understanding of the Experiment

The Next Step in Understanding Spontaneous Meditation

Another Test: Nirvikalp Dhyana in a Simple Squat

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