True Spiritual Living

by Swami Krishnananda

These stages cannot be compartmentalised because it is not that one thing comes after another, as if one thing is disconnected from the other. We cannot say which stage ends where, and which stage begins where. There is an interconnection of one with the other. It does not mean that for some years we practice yama, and after some years niyama, then after some years asana, pranayama etc.; it is not like that. They are all intermingled, like the working of the physiological system in our body. We cannot say which works first and which works afterwards. The alimentary canal, the respiratory system, the circulatory system, the heart, the head are all working simultaneously, though they are apparently different from one another. We cannot say the head thinks first and the heart is afterwards; everything is always. Similarly, the stages of yoga are stages only for the purpose of logical distinction, and they are not a chronological order that is laid before us. With this grounding, the yogi takes up the task of what he has to do next.

It was told that the yogi has to control the mind, which is what we have been discussing. He has to subdue the vrittis, the modifications of the mind. How is this done? We also found out that this is a difficult job, because the vrittis get identified with ourselves and we are ones with the vrittis, and this posed before us a great problem, indeed. But, the recipe given to us by Sage Patanjali is that though it looks formidable in the beginning, it becomes easy by constant practice. Even such a simple act as walking was a very difficult thing when we were babies, and we fell down many times and injured our knees; but now we can run, take part in a race, and not even be conscious that we have legs when we are running, while in earlier days we were very conscious of our legs and fell down. Practice makes perfect.

A repeated assertion of a chosen technique is called for. The control of the mind is effected by a spirit of renunciation and tenacity of practice, says Patanjali: abhyasa vairagyabham tannirodhah. The nirodha, or the discipline or inhibition of the modification of the mind, is effected by two consistent efforts – the spirit of dispassion, and persistent practice. The effort of the mind to repeatedly think the same thing again and again, and not allow itself to think anything else other than what it has chosen for its ideal, may be regarded as ‘practice’ for the purpose of yoga.

A deep, whole-souled concentration or absorption of the mind on a given subject, an object, or a concept, works a wonder. It brings about a miracle by itself. The mind is connected to objects; we have seen this already by some sort of an analysis. There is no object anywhere in this world which is not connected with the mind of the individual who thinks it. Hence, repeated thought of a particular object – here, the chosen one for the purpose of yoga – stirs up those capacities and powers within us which bring the object or the ideal in proximity to us by abolishing the distinction between the subject and the object that is brought about by the factors of space and time. A thing that is far off, in the distant stars, is impossible of achievement or acquisition, ordinarily speaking. This is why we cannot easily acquire the distant stars or even a thing that is on a different continent. It is so far from us; it is ten thousand miles. How we can get it, is a difficulty. But there is no ten thousand miles for the mind, because the mind can overcome the barrier of space and time; and by repeated concentration on what it wishes to achieve, acquire, possess or experience, it can materialise that object at the spot where the yogi is seated. This is to give you an idea of the nature of the practice and its consequences.

Everything in the world is, generally speaking, everywhere. The world is not in dearth of things; it is never poor. Its resources are illimitable, and so anything can be materialised at any time. But this materialisation will take place only if the mind is non-spatially connected with the object it seeks. What makes it difficult for us to achieve anything, possess anything or experience anything directly is the spatial distance between us and the object. We have to abolish this spatial distinction, and this is the purpose of practice.

But, simultaneously, Patanjali says that this kind of effort at abolishing spatial distance between us and the object is impossible unless we have another qualification, called vairagya. Vairagya does not mean putting on a cloth. It means a spirit of understanding the true nature of things, on account of which the mind ceases from attaching itself to particular things of the world, knowing very well that every particular object in the world is included in that which it seeks. That which the yogi seeks is so large and universal in its compass that the little things of the world to which the mind is usually attached are in it in a transmuted form. When this knowledge arises, when there is this discrimination, this ability to understand correctly the relationship of any particular object in the world to that which one is seeking in yoga, there is automatic dispassion. The absence of passion is dispassion; the absence of raga is viraga. The condition of viraga is vairagya. Vairagya and abhyasa should go together.

But vairagya is the most difficult thing to understand. It is one of the things which will not enter our heads easily, and it is one of those things which we very much misinterpret, misconstrue, and mispractice. We may be very seriously attached inwardly, but we may be glorious renunciates outside – again due to the fact that the understanding is not going hand-in-hand with the emotion or the feeling. The reason why we cannot be inwardly detached is because our understanding is not friendly with our feelings. Whatever be our reason, the emotion cares not a hoot for it – because, as a great man said, “The heart has a reason which reason does not know.” The heart has its own reasons. The heart says, “Why do you want your own reasons? Throw them aside. I don’t want your rationality. Kick it out.” If this is the condition, the emotions will refute all the assertions of understanding. Intellectual vairagya is no vairagya, because the feeling of detachment is more an emotional condition which touches the vital being in us rather than merely an outward activity of logical judgment.

‘Not to need an object’ is generally defined as the condition of vairagya. We should not be in need of that object. Not that we cannot get it, or we are exerting not to think about it, and so on – that is not the case. We have no necessity for it.

We have no necessity for it, because of various reasons. One reason is that it is an illusion, like water in a mirage; it does not exist and, therefore, it is meaningless to desire it. Why do we crave for water in the mirage? Or if we try to strike an arrow through a rainbow, we will not be able to do it, because the rainbow is not there really. It is only an illusion, an optical illusion. So, when we realise that the thing is itself not there and we are under a misconception about it, and we are very thoroughly convinced about it, then, of course, we will not get attached to it. That is one of the reasons why there can be detachment from objects: when we know that it is an illusion, like the picture in a cinema. We are not attached to the treasure that is seen on the screen, because we know it is not there, that it is only a shadow that is cast on the wall or the canvas. But suppose we are not able to realise that it is an illusion, then the emotion will run towards it.

While the discovery of the illusory character of an object may be a factor in stirring a spirit of detachment within us, the spirit of detachment can also come by knowing, “What I have with me already includes the object towards which the senses are moving.” If I have hundred million dollars, one dollar is already included in it, and I need not run after one dollar, because I have hundred million. That is one way. Or, “It is not a dollar at all, it is only a deceptive picture that is kept before me.” Then also the mind will not go there.

How are we to practice vairagya? Very difficult is this demand of the yoga system. And because of the difficulty of this aspect of yoga, the other aspect, namely practice, also becomes difficult because they go together, like two wings of a bird. The yoga bird flies with the two wings of abhyasa and vairagya, and if one wing is off, how will it fly with the other wing? There is no vairagya without abhyasa, and no abhyasa without vairagya – practice and dispassion. This is also emphasised in the sixth chapter of the Bhagavadgita: abhyasena tu kaunteya vairagyena ca grhyate (Gita 6.35), says Bhagavan Sri Krishna. “How this turbulent mind can be controlled?” asks Arjuna, “Is it possible at all?” “Yes, it is possible by abhyasa and vairagya.”

Therefore, we have to walk with two legs, as it were. We cannot walk with one leg merely. These two legs with which we walk the path of yoga are abhyasa and vairagya. In the system of Patanjali this is sometimes regarded as the whole of yoga, and if we are well-established in this double attitude of the consciousness of abhyasa and vairagya, we are already rooted in yoga.