The Yoga Sutras · Pada 2: Sadhana

Patanjali opens Pada 2 with a small, concentrated prescription. The whole of practical yoga folds down into three moves: tapas, the strength to keep working from within discomfort, which forges capacity the way a muscle is forged in the gym; svadhyaya, the study of good books that anchors attention to higher signals, and along with it the watching of yourself to see which pattern is running right now and why; and ishvara-pranidhana, lifting the ego out of the driver’s seat and handing the wheel to a larger order. All three run together, at once. They do not go one after another. Without tapas, svadhyaya stays shallow; without svadhyaya, tapas turns mechanical; and without ishvara-pranidhana, the two become an ego-trip. This practice has two jobs, to ripen samadhi and to thin the kleshas. A relief hides right here: it makes no demand for perfection. For a beginning seeker the kleshas cannot be wiped out entirely, and they can be thinned. A thinned klesha is still alive, yet it no longer grips you. That is the real, reachable goal, and courage gathers in it.

Now Patanjali opens his diagnosis of suffering, and says something startling: every human affliction comes from just one of five kleshas, or from their blend. The five are avidya, asmita, raga, dvesha, and abhinivesha. Avidya is the lowest confusion, the root of the other four, their field. It is the root, and the other four grow out of it; if the root is left unattended, cutting the stalk does nothing, and it sprouts again. These four sit in one of four states: asleep, thinned, broken up in patches, or fully awake. In a seeker the kleshas may be asleep, invisible until something gives them a push; in a non-seeker, sharp; in someone mid-practice, broken up, asleep one moment and awake the next. And what is avidya? It takes the perishable for the permanent, the impure for the pure, suffering for happiness, and what is not the “I” for the “I”. Treating a relationship as permanent, the body as pure, pleasure-seeking activities as the source of happiness, and “I am this body-mind”, these four are confusions rising from a single root. It is a small checklist of the discernment of Advaita Vedanta: run these four questions over every opinion that feels solid to you, and watch how many opinions shake loose.

Now the remaining four kleshas open one by one. Asmita is what mistakes the “one who sees” and the “power of seeing” for a single thing. Drik means pure awareness, that is, purusha; darshana-shakti means the mind, the intellect, the senses, the instrument of seeing. In “I am seeing”, the “I” is awareness, while the instrument of the “seeing” is the mind, and we tie the two into one bundle. Undoing this error is the finest work of all, and most sadhana gets stuck right here. Then raga, what stays behind after a pleasure has been enjoyed, its leftover ash; the delicious meal is finished, and the pull of “I want that dish again” remains. This does not brand the experience of pleasure as bad. The trouble lies in the ash, which keeps attention tangled in grabbing for the next thing. Its mirror is dvesha, what stays behind after a pain has been suffered; old hurt becomes today’s irritation, and distance from the kind of people who once wounded you starts running on auto-mode. Raga and dvesha together build a machine of like and dislike; we think we are making free choices, and often we are only chasing old ash. And the fifth, abhinivesha, the clinging to life, which flows on by itself and is lodged even in the learned. This is Patanjali’s most honest sutra: the fear of death does not leave through the mind’s understanding; great scholars and saints too clutch at the body when real danger appears, because this clinging has sunk into the bones through the memory of every past birth. There is only one way to dissolve it, to see clearly that “I” am not the body; until then it stays, and honest seekers take it as a baseline and move on.

Now the question of how these kleshas are removed, and the answer comes on two levels. At the subtle level they are removed by the “reverse journey”, running back along the very path by which they were built. You can see this in sadhana: coarse thoughts quiet first, subtle ones later, and last of all the imprints from which subtle thoughts arise. And at the awake level, when a klesha’s current is actually running, raga rising, dvesha flaring, it is stopped by dhyana. Dhyana here is a particular thing, a settled, witness-like awareness that turns the wave into an object and watches it. A curious point: when you watch raga, it starts to dissolve; when you attach “I” to it, it sets harder. A plain matter, though at first glance it looks upside down.

Now Patanjali opens the machinery of karma. Every act deposits an imprint, a karma-storehouse holding the roots of the kleshas; these imprints are sometimes lived out in this birth, sometimes in births to come. Even if you do not take rebirth literally, the point still lands: the pattern you practice today builds the available toolkit of the later “you”; every move today is tomorrow’s supply. As long as the root is there, its ripening takes three forms, the kind of birth, the length of life, and the experiences met. It is easy to read this as fatalism, and the point is only this: you are living now the result of what has already happened, and what you do now you will live out later; the handle is still in your grip. And whether these fruits bring joy or suffering rests on whether their causes were good or wrong. The point is simple, and Patanjali gives no sermon here; he is only describing the working of the machine.

Now a sutra arrives that looks like pessimism at first glance, though it is not: for the one with discernment, everything is suffering. Notice, the word used is “vivekinah”, only for the one with discernment. The ordinary person takes each experience at its surface, good or bad or plain; the discerning one sees that four sufferings sit hidden in every experience: every pleasure will change, and there is a suffering in that (parinama); even in the middle of pleasure a faint anxiety that it will pass (tapa); every experience leaves an imprint that builds the next grip (samskara); and the three gunas are in constant tug-of-war with one another (the virodha of the gunas). This is clear seeing, and once these four sources come into view, the understanding itself becomes the first relief. Then Patanjali sets down, in five words, the most useful sutra in all of yoga: the suffering that has not yet come is the one that can be avoided. Nothing can be done about what is finished, nor about what is running now, and the suffering ahead, which is still only a seed, can be avoided. The whole aim of yoga is to stop future suffering; mending the past or fleeing the present is simply no part of its work. Just as fixing a bug in software before deployment is cheap and fixing it afterward is expensive, the real value of yoga lies in the pre-deployment intervention; there is a difference between care before an illness arrives and treatment after it has, and yoga belongs to the first kind. And what is the root of this avoidable suffering? The blending together of the drashta and the drishya. The source of suffering lies deeper than outer circumstance or karma: it is the mistaken identification between the one who sees (pure awareness) and the thing seen (everything else). We say “my mind is restless”, though in truth the “I” is awareness and the “mind” is that restlessness; making the two into one is the very conjunction, and all avoidable suffering comes from right here.

With the root in hand, what is this drishya, the seen, that we have gotten blended into? Patanjali gives the definition of the whole of prakriti in a single sutra: the seen is that whose nature is light (sattva), motion (rajas), and inertia (tamas); that is made of the elements and the senses; and whose purpose is to give the drashta experience and, in the end, to free it. A lovely point: the very purpose of prakriti is the drashta. This is a beautiful idea of Sankhya, that prakriti has one job, and that job is the service of consciousness. This prakriti unfolds along a slope from coarse to subtle, in four stages: the gross, the subtle, “a mere hint”, and the unmanifest; the things that appear solid, then the subtle elements, then the level of intellect, and at last the primal prakriti, the unmanifest source of it all. This is the same slope that showed in Pada 1 (1.45, “the subtle ends at the unmanifest”). And on the other side, the drashta? It is only pure seeing, spotless in itself, and we do not meet it directly; we know it only through the mind’s cognitions. Just as a clean bulb is invisible in the dark and becomes visible when its light falls on something, purusha is pure, and its being shows in the mirror of cognitions.

Now Patanjali makes a bold claim: the seen exists for the sake of that drashta; the work of all prakriti is to serve purusha; prakriti holds no separate meaning of its own. The practical lesson: the world turns for the benefit of consciousness, and you are a particular center of that consciousness; imagining that it revolves around your personal benefit is an ego-fantasy. And for the purusha that has completed its purpose, prakriti “vanishes”, though it does not vanish in itself, because its work remains for the other consciousnesses; a liberated person and an ordinary person look at the world, the same world, an entirely different experience. Here comes the hardest and most startling point: this conjunction of purusha and prakriti itself holds a purpose, and it is what makes them recognize their own true nature. That is, this blending together is in the end the engine of clarity; without the tangle the distinction will not show, without discomfort the longing for freedom will not rise, the tangle is the seed of the untangling. And the cause of this conjunction? Small and exact, avidya. All the rest, raga, dvesha, asmita, abhinivesha, are made of avidya, which is the root; this is the point of 2.4 again, from a different angle, because it is worth repeating. And when avidya ends, the conjunction ends, this is the dissolution, and this is the drashta’s kaivalya. The formula is complete: the problem (2.17), the root cause (2.24), the solution (2.25), a clean diagnostic chain. The word “kaivalya” is a rare word that marks Patanjali as his own; moksha, nirvana, these are words of different traditions, and Patanjali says kaivalya, meaning “aloneness”, purusha in itself, without the admixture of prakriti, a kind of coming home.

So how is avidya removed? Unbroken viveka-jnana, discriminative knowledge, is the means of removing it. The key word here is “aviplava”: a single insight is not enough, what is needed is continuous, unbroken discernment, keeping the distinction between purusha and prakriti alive in every moment, and this is why the eightfold yoga is a daily practice, not an on/off button. This final understanding does not arrive in one leap; it comes in seven stages, four of outer understanding (suffering, its cause, its removal, and the means of removal, all four coming into recognition) and three of inner freedom (the intellect’s work done, the gunas folding back, and at last purusha resting in its own nature). And now a bridging sutra: the steady practice of the limbs of yoga wears away the impurity, and the light of understanding reaches viveka-jnana. So viveka-jnana looks like a distant goal, yet the means to it is concrete, and now the hands-and-feet part begins. That means is the ashtanga, the eight limbs: yama, niyama, asana, pranayama, pratyahara, dharana, dhyana, samadhi. This is the most effective sutra in the whole Indian world of meditation, and even today every serious meditation tradition uses some form of these eight. And it is an order, a ladder: first conduct with others (yama), then conduct with yourself (niyama), then the body (asana), then energy through the breath (pranayama), then the drawing in of the senses from outside (pratyahara), then the steadied mind (dharana), then the unbroken stream of dhyana, and at last the full immersion (samadhi). Starting from the outermost and reaching the innermost, because the upper floor cannot be built without the foundation. The rest of this pada (2.30 to 2.55) will open the first five of these, and the last three come in Pada 3.

The first limb, yama, is five measures for conduct with others: ahimsa, satya, asteya, brahmacharya, aparigraha. Ahimsa is not only physical; it is the falling away of any intent to needlessly hurt anyone by word and by mind; it is the most basic yama, and without it the other four are hollow. Satya, truthfulness in fact and the absence of any intent to deceive, yet weighed against ahimsa; if speaking the truth would become direct violence, silence is better. Asteya, plainly not stealing, and in a larger sense not taking what is not yours: credit, attention, time, energy, all of it falls under this. Brahmacharya, not letting energy drain away in unconsciousness, and for the householder, balance and non-attachment. Aparigraha, use things, do not become their owner, only as much as is needed. This list is deliberately a “what not to do”, and Patanjali’s reasoning is that you first stop doing wrong, and only then will doing right be genuine; the first rule of the physician’s oath, “first, do no harm”, is an exact echo of ahimsa. And when these yamas are kept without the conditions of class, place, time, or circumstance, they become “mahavratas”. Ordinary morality is conditional, “I do not lie to him, and I may lie to this one”; the mahavrata is unconditional morality. It is a high demand, and it means that conditional morality is really self-serving, a dressed-up form of ego, and the mahavrata is the real practice. Then the second limb, niyama, the five to be practiced with yourself: shaucha, santosha, tapas, svadhyaya, ishvara-pranidhana. The yamas were “what not to do”, the niyamas “what to do”. Shaucha, the washing of both outer and inner, santosha, acceptance of what is, tapas, that same glad joining with discomfort from 2.1, svadhyaya, good books and the watching of yourself, and ishvara-pranidhana, that same surrender from 1.23 and 2.1. The last three niyamas are exactly what the kriya-yoga of 2.1 was; Patanjali is underlining them again, because these three tie morality to the inner practice.

But how do you keep the yamas and niyamas when contrary impulses rise? Patanjali gives a highly useful method that can be tried this very day: when a harmful impulse rises, grow its opposite in the mind. Anger is rising, grow compassion; greed is rising, grow generosity. The mind can hold only one state at a time, so seat the opposite quality in it and the disturbance shifts on its own; modern psychology’s “cognitive reframing” is one form of this. And why the feeling of the opposite is necessary, Patanjali spells out finely: contrary thoughts such as violence, whether done by yourself, had done by others, or quietly approved; whether rising from greed, anger, or delusion; whether mild, middling, or intense, all of them result in an endless run of suffering and ignorance. He examines it from nine angles, three ways times three causes times three intensities, that is, 27 possibilities. And notice, violence done by consent is the subtlest: you are not doing it yourself, not having it done either, yet you quietly agree, and this too is violence. “Endless fruit”, even a small violence can set off countless consequences, which is why actively cultivating the opposite feeling is necessary; wishing alone will not do.

Now Patanjali states the fruit of each yama, and every fruit is a testable claim. When ahimsa sets firm, hostility falls away on its own in its presence; around one in whom the intent to not injure has truly settled, the atmosphere of violence begins to change, and this is the “calm presence” near which even another’s nervous system cools. When satya sets firm, actions and their fruits stay aligned; the words of one whose speech is trustworthy land on the ground, because there is weight in the words and the world moves on them. When asteya sets firm, all wealth comes on its own, a delightful paradox, the one taking less receiving more; around one who takes nothing amiss, trust grows, and trust draws in wealth of every kind, money, relationships, respect. When brahmacharya sets firm, virya, life-energy, is gained; by not letting energy drain away in unconsciousness, a vigor, an edge, a clarity remains. This is not a decree of renunciation; for the householder, balance and conscious participation are also brahmacharya, the key word being non-attachment. And when aparigraha holds, a clear understanding of “why and how was I born” arrives; when you stop hoarding things, the identity that stood on things loosens, and a deeper sense of “who I really am” begins to surface.

Now the fruits of the five niyamas. Shaucha brings non-attachment toward your own body, and lessens needless entanglement with the bodies of others; as the deep practice of keeping the body clean goes on, the body’s real nature, its impermanence and decay, comes into clear view, and a settled non-attachment arrives, serve the body, do not worship it. Shaucha has further fruits, inner cleanliness, cheerfulness, concentration, mastery over the senses, and the capacity to see yourself; “saumanasya” means a baseline happiness, a clean mind is cheerful on its own, and those who stay perpetually dull have, somewhere, refuse collected in the mind. Santosha brings the happiness better than which there is nothing; the more content a person is, the happier, and at a certain point this happiness becomes “anuttama”, which no external addition can improve. It turns Maslow’s ladder upside down: happiness rises as needs shrink. Tapas wears away impurity and brings a refinement to the body and the senses, which is the very principle of an athlete’s training. Svadhyaya brings connection with the chosen deity; in the tradition, mantra-repetition and study of scripture build a relationship with a deity-energy, and in today’s language, the ideal or person on whom you continually dwell in manana, reflection, settles into your inner machinery. And the last, most powerful: ishvara-pranidhana brings samadhi to completion. Surrender alone is enough for samadhi, because it is the move that lifts the ego out of the driver’s seat; the other practices polish the ego, and surrender transforms it.

Now the third limb, asana, and perhaps the most misunderstood sutra in modern yoga culture: asana is that which is steady and comfortable. Patanjali’s asana is a seat for meditation. It has nothing to do with the difficult poses of the gym. Two qualities are needed, steady (not shaking) and comfortable (not in pain); when both are present, that is asana, and if even one is missing, the asana is not established. In today’s studios people do the peacock pose and the handstand and think this is “advanced asana”, and in Patanjali’s language, if it is not steady and comfortable, it is no asana at all. So a small question to yourself: whatever your daily meditation seat is, a chair, a mat on the floor, anything, it should be steady and comfortable, and you should treat it as your real foundation. There are two ways to strengthen it, and both go together: the slackening of effort, releasing the tight grip of the muscles so the seat rests on the bones and the muscles let go of their strain; and merging into the limitless, moving attention away from the body onto something large and open, the sky, space, the resonance of ॐ, because when attention rests on some vast expanse, the body settles on its own. Loosening the muscles alone will make the body slump, moving attention away alone will keep it tense, so both together. And from such a steady seat the pairs of opposites, hot and cold, hunger and satiety, praise and blame, no longer strike as hard; when the body is still the nervous system is still, and then the mental jolts are fewer, this is the mental benefit of a bodily foundation.

Once the asana is steady, the fourth limb opens, pranayama: deliberately placing an interruption in the inward and outward flow of the breath. This is more than mere “breathing exercise”; it is specifically the practice that consciously places a pause in the natural flow of the breath; the word “viccheda” is the key: this is a gentle interruption, done without force. And the order matters, the asana must set first, because if the body is unsteady, playing with the breath can do harm, which is why many modern teachers warn that deep pranayama without the foundation of asana is dangerous. It comes in three kinds, a pause on the out-breath (bahya kumbhaka), a pause on the in-breath (abhyantara kumbhaka), and a complete stopping that comes on its own anywhere (kevala kumbhaka, a further practice); and each is measured on three scales, desha, where the attention is (nose, throat, heart), kala, how long, and sankhya, how many times; as the practice ripens, the breath grows longer and finer. Then a further state, the fourth pranayama, which crosses beyond both the outer and inner spheres; here the breath stops on its own and attention is released from both spheres, this is the refined form of kevala kumbhaka, surfacing on its own in deep meditation. The greatest fruit of all this is that the veil over the inner light dissolves; the inner clarity is in everyone but covered, and pranayama slowly wears that veil away, which is why regular practitioners report a clearer mind, quicker insight into problems, and less turbulence of the emotions. And one more fruit of it, the bridge to the next limbs: the mind becomes fit for dharana, concentration. Trying dharana directly without pranayama, the mind will keep wobbling; this confirms the same order, the “stilling” of Pada 1 is possible only when the body and breath are settled.

And the fifth limb, pratyahara, the threshold of this pada: when the senses cut away from their own objects and begin to take on the very form of the chitta, this is pratyahara. The senses ordinarily look outward, the eye outward, the ear outward; in pratyahara they turn inward and come into one tune with the chitta. A mark to recognize it by: you are in meditation, there is noise outside, and it is not registering at all, the ears are working but attention is not flowing through them, this is pratyahara. This is not a forced cutting off; closing the eyes is only an outer severance; pratyahara is inner, the senses fall away from their objects on their own. And as it ripens, the highest mastery over the senses is gained, they come fully into your hand, joining when you wish, withdrawing when you wish; just as a seasoned musician holds such command over the instrument that the note sounds only when wanted, the senses too are an instrument, and pratyahara is the discipline of tuning them. Here the journey of Pada 2 is complete, from the recognition of suffering (2.3 to 2.27) to the five limbs of yoga (2.28 to 2.55), a whole passage. Pratyahara is the threshold after which the real inner work becomes possible, and without mastery over the senses that work is simply not possible; where dharana, dhyana, and samadhi open, we meet in Pada 3.